Memo: You/We

Memo: You/We

There is no law that says there is no law;
nor any god whose work you do, but whose
task you’ve become. Your very speech is straw,
weightless but flammable, useless but as a fuse
in the primordial cordite of the dog-brain,
mad to be blooded with the pack or bloodied by it.
Your only weapon is the very stain
you wear, wrung and re-flung: the darkness-diet
that bloats and blinds, surfeits and starves at once—
the lie that hate is love. Poor addled mutant;
poor brittle landlord-spoor; poor frightened dunce
dithering in your money-pit, light-years distant
from worth or worthiness—poleaxed to see
justice of your own making coming: We.


MB
7/12/25