ah, my guts hurt,
from my stomach burking burkina faso,
to my in-tiss-and tess-tine
(a labor force in occupied palestine,
digging trenches with bile and shattered glass).

my great great great intestine, a silica pipeline,
long like the nile,
where pharaonic farts
still echo in the tombs,
petrified by time’s heat.

my ass also,
wedged between plato and uranus,
politically correct,
it hurts,
a permafrost of shame
thawing under coup d’états.

is there a regime change
like in the homo erectus time?
when organic meant rot,
and weed meant:
a plant,
a rebellion,
a thing to smoke,
while watching empires
shatter like tempered glass
under the torch of revolt.

or must we wait
for the next warlord’s cryptocurrency,
the next françafrique handshake,
the next gold rush,
i mean, blood-drenched,
and including
lithium-flavored,
a battery acid democracy
poured into silica molds.

"regime change," they whisper,
as if it’s a un resolution,
not just the same gun,
relabeled each time
as "humanitarian intervention,"
its barrel frosted with excuses.

my final stanza or
the thermodynamics of revolt:
"every dynasty
is a backed-up bowel.
every revolution
a violent laxative.
bring your own bidet,
comrade,
the imf
will not wipe us clean.

glass melts.
ice cracks.
silica remembers.
labor is the gut’s theory of everything."

"regime change"
this my final draft,
a digestive tract of revolutions,
now with more thermodynamics,
just replace the word whisper with a fart.