The war on drugs has gone Goyaesque,
faces etched in dismemberment, rape,
bayoneted children, faith up in flames.
Housewives cooking crystal meth instead of oatmeal,
tweaking moms playing peekaboo
around cereal pillbox hiding from the cops.
Cheerleaders high kicking from fix to fix,
roaring for the rush,
the crush of the crash,
becoming trash in their own mind.
Children nursed on chaos
grow up to suckle guns,
love on the run,
fear the sun’s scrutiny
worse than any vampire
aiming her fangs at a vein.
Love in vain turned sour, toxic,
poison orange juice married to vodka.
Every woman who comes to the microphone
tells the same story:
life without love is a zombie’s dance,
another million snow flakes
twitching to Michael Jackson’s Thriller
in a prison gymnasium.
We all have Goya’s eyes now,
but none of the talent.