Civil Twilight

Written in December '23

in the hours before sunrise,

the huntress schemes of ways

to live rent-free in the heads of others

but it’s the path of cowardice,

the route of the anonymous avatar,

but she airs her s**t in public

because the stench just loves

to be seen, smelled and heard

but she’s not the huntress,

her mouth couldn’t fell

a ten-point buck at

two hundred meters

she just hunts for threads

that can be torn out of

the familial sweater

and so she writes

digital missives that only

go to the sycophant’s

dead letter office,

away from the sense organs

owned by the targets of

her misplaced rage

all things considered,

she’s a success,

a baby boomer with

a family and a business

to call her own

the grass is green on

everyone’s lawns,

or did the huntress

fail biology class

back in middle school?

she chose the life path

herself and she’s remained

unhinged nonetheless

and so she posts and posts

and lifts the little red flag

day in and day out, just showing

the audience that she’s the thing

on the mailbox that she keeps lifting

on and on, each day with every six

degrees of rotation ad infinitum

she’s in the twilight of her life,

and she’s anything but civil

may her target audience remain

on the high road until the huntress

falls asleep, or until the bells

permanently break