Take you for the money,
all the way
to see evil,
the ugly infectious wound
it is
a gangrenous ravine,
granted,
but like a comet’s
perfect round shape
had been mangled in
collision,
like the back of the head
had been blown away
by a shotgun blast through
the mouth
the victim’s back as if
ploughed
by a crashing airplane,
the swollen mountainous
region
of whiplashes swarming
with repulsive life
No, evil is not in the
open wound
or the oozing puss,
the rank odor of neglect
(as if by caring
you could defeat entropy and rot)
but Evil hath been there,
like it exists here,
to leave its trace on the
face
deprived of sight,
to sell the cornea
of a child born into
destitution
No, as far removed from
that boiled fish-eye stare
evil sits plunk in repose
complacently in a chair
on a dais of design
luxury,
inexorable
like a stone
in your hand
lacking the hurt you feel
Evil, confused,
as always someone else,
one of them
that signed and approved
all your suffering
and you figure the stone
in your hand
could remedy all,
as if designed for the
purpose
of cleansing the human
body
So, join them,
and ye be the one to cast
it first
Yes, make it go away,
and sleep better,
until you hear them
muttering
incantations
for you to go away
and you can’t make that
vile sound go away,
shun it outside being
like you can’t sue
bacteria
for infecting;
no court would have that
No ritual can extricate
evil
and sterilize the world
from something that is
essentially a lack,
not even the stone
in your hand
and you thought they were
leaching on you
the question is: can you
bear being one of them,
one of us all included
or rather be one of them
(they sometimes evolve
to breathe here)
breathe human emotion
and read thousands of
books
to reinvent compassion,
again
serving life
until death.
