December 28th, 2012



We think things lost. Sometimes they're memories
we know that there was something but a mist
stops us from knowing what it was. We list
all of the things it might be. None of these

we say and wonder. Sometimes it's a toy
worn out or left behind or just misplaced.
We don't know which. Our memories are erased;
the toy is gone for good. And yet, what joy

to open boxes find covered in dust
or cobwebs what was lost, and brush it clean
out in the open air. Or to have seen
the thing that triggers knowledge we can trust

to be lost memory at last come back
to fill space we did not see as a lack.


There's something missing in them. Not a hole
In brain or heart. Perhaps we'd say a flaw
in both, that lets them easily ignore
that others have a life, a mind, a soul.

There's things they want. Money perhaps or power
or just to say fuck you to all of life.
They take it with a bank, a prick, a knife.
Gloat minutes then are hungry in an hour

And do these things again. It is their right
they tell themselves. She brought it on herself
the poor are lazy. They're the source of wealth
of order manhood God. So, every night,

they turn their skins and raven. Wolves again
who tricked us into thinking they were men.


Dark city garbage alleys where dark mist
is smoke of burning hearts the city broke.
Swallows your heel-steps. There's a rasping croak
Obscene batrachian; burn on your wrist -

a thing unseen has touched you. Feel pulsebeat
race then slow down. Alleys are ways to fear,
you're not safe anywhere, but something here
is waiting. There is quicksand at your feet

pulling you down. The mist cloys in your throat
like poison candy. Decisions long since made
pursue you. In the dark a flicking blade
flashes with neon moonlight, and your coat

is suddenly in tatters. The wild hunt
is at your heels, will soon be at your cunt.