social media, I

​they said: make an effigy depicting your demon
then burn it and in burning it the demon is destroyed
and so from the paper of old roads maps
plaster of graveyard dirt and smashed walls
plucked hair from a bear at great cost
teeth of nails pulled from churches
tongue made from a necktie stolen from a politician
the paint, unmentionable
fingers, toes of roadkill snakes, of fish-spine
the torso a rusted drum dragged from a landfill
I assure you
Frankenstein was assembled more humanely
had a prettier face, his electrodes polished
at least but my demon, no, it was built
in the dark, blindfolded, fumbled, not a single 
candle assisted by so that 
the darkness would be full untainted by the Light
Corrosive. and there it was—taller than I in more ways
than one with its red tongue and frog-bulge eyes
burn it they said, do it now and when I touched the 
box of matches saw Abraham with a trembling 
dagger and I saw an eagle goaded to rip
out a certain liver and all manner of scars
carved on the faces of youths to make them
Men and make them Women. what are we really 
burning? I asked the matches and aren’t you 
tired of this, This Great Pretending? 
I mean, I see people shooting wolves
because they are themselves wolves I see 
saints chased down by their own shadows
and beaten to death I see mirrors
looking deeply into mirrors, blemish
without end. 
so you people of flame
when I disappear from the campfire
into the cold-forged night nothing will forgive me
for taking up the new moon’s beautiful darkness 
and making a mask out of it, and wearing 
it in whatever damn way I choose to wear it.
​