I wake up angry. I want to yell and scream:
dullards surround me,
caring only for themselves.
They will themselves deaf and my anger
can’t scorch their titanium-cased
minds and their shriveling, snotty hearts.
I ponder laying my blazing match on the tinder of their world:
Burn it down—bare stone—start again.
I laugh: magical, maniacal; my atheist heart
stitched with leaping human hubris.
I choose to loiter with the wretched of the earth.
I am a willful angry outsider everywhere; knowing
the gutting limits of creation—No paradise extent:
None. Neither by stepping in Attila’s bloody hoof-prints
nor by fingering Gandhi’s peaceful looms.
Copyright Tim Bagwell