Harming

It runs in the family, it runs, it runs,

the blood, like mud in the sun, drying, slowing, sticking, to dust.

It runs in my friends, and I know it depends on pills and pistols—

but when will the world come to its senses and see me clearly?

All around are mind diseases—yes, yes, up and down, it runs

in the family—my great uncle abandoned his, and his

sister was a schizophrenic. And they feared war, and war relied

on people just like them, who didn’t know they were sick.

It runs, it runs, into the heart of Africa,

into the sour roots of my ancestral tree. It runs, in me, in me!

They like to blame the hosts, when demons have possessed us.

My very own son says fault lies in the stars…in me.

And now my soul—my son! It’s run, he’s run

away, I think.

Alarming

In the morning I could see a crack along the windshield, driver’s side,

where my dad sat. Can’t tell what caused it. Reason likens the pebble,

feeble, useless pebble, popping up to shatter the world in two. Just as brains

do, infested sponges.

The crack grew at night. It grows at night, that’s when it creeps,

creeps across the width of the glass. And if the crack’d move back,

if it was matter, not just empty space, it’d slit my throat, so trifling

a nuisance, illegal and harmless, growing, creeping, in the night,

in the night it grows, and I push it off. Don’t fix it now, to the shop

tomorrow, for the Holy Grail, life forever, after sunrise, after nightfall.

In the night—that’s when it grows, like a grin

with sparkling white glitter lipstick in the day,

when the sun beats down and it sucks up the rays

and collects them into a beam, a saber, growing, creeping, in the night, the night,

when it’s dark

and no one can see

the monsters we are.

Armory

I’m taking a break from the internet, the neighbor said,

watching the broken car go. On apps, these flaps of flesh,

in waste, in waste, peeling away sheets of skin with each scroll,

up to the air as the finger commands, one swipe up at a time,

a post a square of pores and hair. March along the shattered monitor,

mindless. It wears on me, she said. People can be so cruel. They hide

behind their shields of anonymity. Nameless soldiers in mutiny.

Well, you see, he said to her, she values traditional success:

titles, establishments, ranks, projects, awards, prizes, recognitions, certificates.

Position. Leverage. Privilege.

Don’t follow her, Barb. She’s a phony, like that boy once said.

It’s all for show.

You fool, she said to him. I’m one, too, of course.

Sometimes I think she’s warring on the inside. What do you think?

And down in the living room, her son has his laptop up, and the video game is on.

And he’s winning the battle. You can die over and over on the screen.

No amount of blood can end the war, as long as you’re plugged in.

Where are the parents? they ask. They’ll all become serial killers,

growing up like that. Our generation would never allow such violence.

We were good. We were clean. We went out and made friends.

And the news is on in the back of the room, and his sister is talking to herself.

She’d never had any friends and hated video games.

You say the press has no soul. Those priests: they’re soulless.

Pop stars, businessmen, lawyers—not a soul between any of them!

Well, then, tell me, in this world of pinhole judgments, who has a soul?

Anyone? Certainly not. Except for you, of course. How admirable.

“Have you no shame? Send them away!

Condemn! Condemn! Condemn! I don’t care of your excuses.

Condemn! Condemn! Condemn!”

The only fake news is the politician who lies.

But we believe, don’t we? We believe in souls.

They’ll send the missile tomorrow. It’s Cold again in Russia,

maybe Korea, too.

We thought it was warm.

But it’s Cold again.

I think I’ll write her something, the mother said, upstairs.

She needs a reality-check.

It might not be necessary, he said. I wouldn’t.

And when have you ever given me good advice?

Harmony

He’s turning onto the freeway, now.

The cradle falls, cradle and all, splashing in the Styx.

I thought the car that hit the pane would knock me out,

but instead I felt the paint enter into my senses, all five,

chipping away. The metal and mirrors gliding like ships,

forward, accelerating, through the crack, under my palms.

And the beast split me and carried my blood,

slaughtered my woeful steed, spilt the milk of its breast.

The napalm-plastered branches. What my uncle died for.

And I could hear it screeching against my ears. It was mine.

That collision belonged to me, an irony, my melody,

the reverie of loving me unbroken, even now, where love is lost.

For monsters cannot love, and arms are kinder if they’re human,

and bombs on dirt can’t match the desolation

left by bombs that burst within.

There are no ends, no ends, but bends, these roots, bends and only then

the ashen road, unpaved.

Far off, he ran, apple fallen from the tree, running, creeping, hoping.

My soul, my son! I must see my son, which room is he in?

Light of day, knight against sin. Let me free!

The neighbors heard later what he told the nurse.

I was right, the daughter said. It’s Cold again. No one listened.

Her parents thought of flesh, how much it chills when still.

And so young, and what a loss, and how unfair.

While downstairs, their own slipped away, into the pixels.

You must believe! he had said, they recalled. War is over! Let it be!

My only son! It runs in me, it runs in him, don’t you see? Can’t you see?

My only child! And almost free, bound to be unchained and sane, finally!

Which room, which room? My boy must know!

Haven’t you heard? Disarm, disarm!

War is over.