Demons Don’t

The Jews all live
by the coast,
the sea that Philistines
said they’d drive them to.
Abraham cries in heaven
looking down on his progeny
wipe each other out.
While black rain falls
in bushels full of torrents.
The Torah birthed the Koran
by way of the Bible.
Bile in words that spawn
wars of race and pride.
Landlocked hatreds,
giants taking sides.
Fires smolder in silos.
The devil smirks, I smile.
I got a shot at heaven.
Demons don’t.

The Land Of Ire

The land of ire
is not far
from anywhere.
It is a word
and an act away,
at arm’s length.

It has two seasons:
warm and burning.
The devil was born
in this place;
hands curled
in a fist,
with no face.
He exults every time
someone settles
there, here.

Guilt is the only rain
allowed in the land of ire.
It is a worm gnawing
on rotting flesh on a silent battlefield.

Ballads and lyrics
like bullets litter the ground;
gestures mean,
words with no sound.