This anger would be easier
if I was a painter,

could spill it out
in cadmium red

and yellow ochre,
let layers build up–

.

This anger has texture,
rough as a raised fist.

In solidarity, or to land
a blow?

I don’t know,
it chokes out eloquence.

.

How could such hate
be lauded? Add some cheap

gold foil to the composition,
scattered senselessly.

Rabidly.

.

A heart is a muscle,
it can fail, I know, but this

is an infarction of the soul.
Tear it down and start over.

.

If only love was enough
of a coat of armor.

This anger would be easier
if I was a sculptor,

striking and discarding
in order to bring order,

and thereby proving
it exists.

.

A full suit, in granite, immobile as grief.

.

No a night sky, stars made of headlights,
and none of them out. God,

the first time I heard your voice
say officer—

I didn’t know you kept another you
inside you like that.

.

They’re stealing our jobs!
And more dog whistles.

No. This is a sic ’em.
This is open season.

This is the man who said
Well you know, they call you KKK.

They did me. I think it’s an honor.
Yes he did say that.

.

This anger would be easier
if words mattered at all.

.

Non-PC
and Boys Being Boys

and The Officer Felt Threatened
and Lots of People Are Saying

and Folks I Tell It Like It Is
rising up like ballons, so full of it.

.

And this heart, a big box of pins