A punch clock tragedy marks
its latest victim, flailing in a flood
of anonymous obituaries
haphazardly construed as a reckoning
of gladiatorial combat. To offset
the hysteria induced by the forecast
of tire irons I lace my gums
in a powdery surge and affix
my fingers to the matchstick figure
of a surgical wound. The black light
of liberty coiled round
I rage in and out of focus.
I stifle the throngs of abeyance
haranguing my bones and strap on
the paper crown of their protests,
with a radon flare smoldering
inside my heat seeking skull.
But then by means of some spiteful
heresy, my fury enamors
a parody – and obscures my vision
in a cataclysm of fog.