holy tube

sacrifice belongs to the heart organ
struggling to render sense
of what the world makes of congealed peoples,
my own circle included,
as distal moot points jab reminders
we are one
when we see something hurt,
when conscience intrudes on business,
when going about forced
feedings, bleedings, and improvised bedding
on the side of holy
mountains buzzing with news vulture drones
ready to dominate
that which surmounts disbelief
and posits United sanctuaries as targets,
cupid on the rack
with a steady stream of vitriol
inserted down tube you conduit
you condone it
tithe the torture instrument no more
on a day shared
not just by foes, but by the rest of us noncombatants
who avoid even pillow fights
who would rather sing the feasts we find on this spare rib
called Earth, pulled out of a swirl
and primary longing to give
our own
to the other
in order for chaos to illustrate beauty in freedom
that mocks constraints and private prison islands
by a pace maker ticking out pardons
and sorry sorties, atoning for thirty third alignments
in which One divided
bears some burden, in ritual, but allows
blood shed by proxy and calls it brother in the wrong tongue,
so much in the way
that our info tube carves new tunnels in the form of wormholes
trying to find ways out of days
less revered than utilized.