Day Twenty-Seven: ‘Fight Sounds’

April 28, 2013

Slug fist and drop, machinery of night

extinguishing the rage which, when at peak,

pours over as a crude metallurgy curse.

Down goes the rat as flat as evening air,

swollen and hot — a gasping eloquence.

Cranking smiles from scum, horrors from the prim,

harrowing as a car wreck scene. I feel

nothing. Not anger hot white nor a fit

of nausea. No square root of catharsis.

Only release is after, years removed

over coffee or in traffic, neutral spots

where the mind revisits scenes dark-lit like cigarettes

in cocktails rooms. Follow your ears. They don’t

lie, the traitors. They reveal in snippets.

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