Prison of Flesh

Driven to madness long ago
Unsure as to cry or kill
But vigilante is a dead occupation
in a world in balance, tipping
so far in the wrong direction

Too many fell into the program
Too many hands got greased
Too many fell to their knees

and for what?

But to fill their lives and gullets
with shit, then discard
what they can't finish 
and complain about their health
as thousands of children die weekly
of starvation in Somalia
too far from their gluttony
for them to show empathy
or even a thought

I am no saint
I too shall pay full price
for time spent on sin
I've heard of no settlements
being offered for Karmic debt

As I have served my self
I'll serve my time

in this prison of flesh

Postpartum Part-time Penitentiary Blues

Currently serving time
in a medical research complex,
plotting escape as I labor, ever vigilant
of cameras and exit signs,
less secure than Alcatraz,
the sharks less menacing,
Far less distinguishable
and humanity has given way
to intellect, the worst thing
to happen to western culture
since the white man evicted
the natives from their homeland.

I've witnessed more love

in jailhouse showers,

in boarded up crack houses,

on whore occupied street corners,

among vagabonds beneath overpasses

and yet the smug pseudointellectuals

seem to be the only ones making bail.