each day like filth
scraped from the eye of god
each moment pure
and i offer no explanations
when i tell you that
both are true
i eat dinner while paul hill
is put to death
i have seconds
and how is it that
in all the years i wasted in school
i never learned about
the babi yar ravine?
in whose blood are the names
of all the slaughtered
written?
picture the world reduced
to those who would invent the machine gun
and those who would use it
picture mercy as
being allowed to die before
your daughters are raped
remember that malevich had his reasons
for painting white on white
remember that pollock knew them
that he dreamed his own death
and does anyone care when a
pedophile priest is murdered?
is the world a better place when
his bones have been
picked clean by the crows?
it gets to the point where
every question is only a means
of avoiding the truth
where august becomes september
and none of us
can offer any comfort
and what i think about is
this waitress on her knees in a
dirty bathroom with her
pants undone and a stranger
standing over her
what i think about is
how good hatred feels
all of the ways it can be
turned into power
