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Turn turn turn

I found my opinion
leering at naked women
and chastised it
for its brazen disregard
of ocular transgressions,
micro and macro.

My opinion stumbled
from the red rectangle
of the bar entrance
to the driver side door
and blinked away
blurry vision
all the way home.

My opinion is a crybaby,
a bully,
an often misguided missile,
striking a target
with no concern
for the collateral damage.

He walks down dark alleys
dragging a crowbar
caked with rust
and dried liquid
that flakes off black
in his hands
very similar to rust.

I toss him out of my house
like a paper plane,
a drum with a hole in it,
a bowling ball
tied to some fishing line
with two hooks,
one imbedded in each
of my bloodshot eyes.

I wrestle him down
like an older brother
or a father I never had
asking me to say uncle
with no idea
what happens next
after the name has been uttered.

My opinion gets lonely,
it needs to fuck,
to be touched,
admired for its form,
the shock rock smoothness
of cold steel and flesh,
it has needs, it has feelings,
but most of all
it has fists.

An irrational fear leads to irrational deeds

Fear of words

I’m afraid of words, and what they might do.
Rape, as a word, cannot be trusted,
with its r it uses as a rivet
to shackle thin wrists and twist,
its a it ambulates over frantic mouths
like a palm to smother and stifle screams,
its p it puts between legs and pries
so the e can explore
like an ether or ejaculate that enters
where it is most unwanted.

Kill, maim, murder, lie,

all must be made archaic,
must be stricken from our tongues
to prevent future harm,
such grievous perils spoken
can never be undone.
To even whisper them
renders them powerful,
like a trigger in a gun
tethered to loose lips
just waiting to be sprung.

A poem is so heavy now,
it can never be lifted from the page.
There are libraries filled with obscenities
sinking like cities built upon damp paper streets.
We must put a torch
to the pyre before it burns us,
before it makes us feel
what we felt before as pain,
these words, these words shouldn’t exist,
shouldn’t open doors we want locked in our brains,

so pass the gasoline and pass the blindfold,
pass the blank white sheet
of our sterile refrain,
and come closer.
We can’t see our breath now,
but it’s cold, cold, cold in our bones,
so stay where its warm, here by the flame.