Tristan Cody is a 19-year-old ox living in the poppy fields.

The Uniform Commute of a Man Seeking God
By Tristan Cody

Corrosion set in. My tie gangly
against the mint vintage attire
that my children wore to school.
Momma admitted she washed them
with her soaps like role models
that bore resemblance amongst a
plethora of troubled detergents
set to cleanse our hamper/bin(s)
in and out–spanning a rioter
a race a king a hip protagonist.
Their incandescent brash bulbs
scattering philosophical school
houses into a titanium feast, cold
with tenure. Bones dropping IQs
in simultaneous expressions for
urban reliquaries now dwindling
now cursing in unison against a
system. I drove a day in search
of god (doubtful) and existent
somewhere between the imaginary
mobile ocean of south LA, CA–
the whole of the promised land–
cut off by the pelting pool off
erings which encouraged cowards
to commit coexistent compliance
with other convenient wheelers.
This godless soap vibrating in.
from the foundation of my life.
The ghost of that god balled up
in the corners of those crosses
and I caught a glimpse of those
children in the rain–drowning
with those metal bones–momma
and her fragile soaps, bleached
out to the whiteness of her own
realism. I sighed, turned to be
the boss-head and then saw Him.