Day Twenty-Nine...

A sibilant hiss of a petal falling from a branch;
Strung leaves glowing a bold green…
The person-cell squatting again,
Behind the lavatory.
Chairman Mao’s death was calm as a soiled page of prosody heaven-bound.

I ask this still with self-hate brewing the memory of my brother in prison:

I haven’t visited you lately, quite a while. I remember me asking:

Brother, why do men die alone in war?

And he’d said: Because they chicken out.
But,
Did we ask that of our fathers;
About that god’s bleeding asshole…
About how it’s churning
Slave-beacons without souls…
Who traverse thorn planes, like
Soldiers exiting a sinister game?
Asking of mothers:
Does birth rub off the shame…