Anger is a feeling everyone has and few can surpress
Anger is the reason the world is so violent
Anger is all consuming
Anger is irrational and unintentional
Anger is cleansing but shameless
Anger is the cause of a feeling of numbness that obstructs your ability to acknowledge how hurt others are by your words or actions
Anger is a war that never ends
Anger is brainless and demanding while it lasts, but regretted once it ends
Anger is hard, cold, and lonely
Anger is using your mouth before your brain
Anger is a furious, thunderous storm of feelings you have to endure alone
Anger is life
Entire landscape south
from Boston to N.Y.
cruddy, with technological waste, wreckage
as into darkness
moves this train.
An American, what can I do?
Strange flat ponds
still mirrors under still sky
with grey-brown fur protruding
in their midst - must be
the rough beast that lives there.
Can politics
do this? What
can I do, an American?
A general throwing up of hands!
The means of production
The first word is, of course
To Eat - manger, or The Manger, masticate and nourish, devour,
rob-from-the-landscape, transform, sharpen the gums,
or the teeth, fill the hole with parts of the world,
stuff the anger, engender energy, manipulate fleshy
objects, drain, suck, take away some of mum, milk is
to eat what water is to bleed---mmmmmmm
The second word is
To sleep - Dormir, dormant, schlep, do-do, dip into silence,
drown the brain, empty the wrists, multiply, rock
in God, to fade away, to say goodbye world, to be
smashed by space, ground under the wing of mercury,
find Cinderella's shoe, to sleep is to stilskin, to threeblind
-mice, to sleep is to do the no-no
The third word is
Blood has been harder to dam back than water.
Just when we think we have it impounded safe
Behind new barrier walls (and let it chafe!),
It breaks away in some new kind of slaughter.
We choose to say it is let loose by the devil;
But power of blood itself releases blood.
It goes by might of being such a flood
Held high at so unnatural a level.
It will have outlet, brave and not so brave.
Weapons of war and implements of peace
Are but the points at which it finds release.
And now it is once more the tidal wave
That when it has swept by leaves summits stained.
Oh, blood will out. It cannot be contained.
I staggered on through darkness,
There was a hazy sky, a few stars
Which I followed as best I could.
It was nine o’clock, I was trying to get home.
But somehow I was lost,
Though really keeping the road.
Then I reeled through a gate and into a yard,
And called at the top of my voice:
“Oh, Fiddler! Oh, Mr. Jones!”
(I thought it was his house and he would show me the way home. )
But who should step out but A. D. Blood,
In his night shirt, waving a stick of wood,
And roaring about the cursed saloons,
And the criminals they made?
“You drunken Oscar Hummel,” he said,
As I stood there weaving to and fro,
I WILL keep you and bring hands to hold you against
a great hunger.
I will run a spear in you for a great gladness to die
with.
I will stab you between the ribs of the left side with
a great love worth remembering.