Broken

Between us, on a tabletop of glass,
a working hand becomes a hammer.

A man wants his way.
He won’t take no.

Blood, though not spilled, boils.
Shards ring out and sing

the ways we will not mend—
how the heart, like a fractal,
repeats a pattern of breaks
and splits when magnified.

My heart rages.  It pushes blood
along a crooked line of strife

until I heed the rattle-crack
and attend the bang of anger.

The embittered rackets rise until
the broken pieces lay at rest between us.

Amid Old Friends

Amid old friends, a working hand
comes down hard.  Fear falls on the land,
as a fist becomes a hammer,
a glass tabletop to shatter.
A man, afraid, will take a stand

when, not according to his plan,
he receives a humble brand
and is loath to drop the matter
amid old friends.

Shards sing out how rage will expand
into violence, will demand,
with a loud rattle of anger
and a bang of bad behavior,
that we heed a fool’s reprimand
amid old friends.

The Denial Of Violence

2.  The Denial Of Violence

It was in a seminary lecture on violence that God spoke, quietly and clearly, “John, violence is a problem for you.  You need some help.”  I went to my professor after class and told him about some of my failures.  Later, we met and he told me to participate in an anger management group and other counseling if I wanted to continue taking classes at that school.

I was embarrassed and alarmed again.  But I followed his recommendation and began to see how my angry, vengeful violence could be changed; that, in fact, the very meaning of my violence could be changed.  (continue)

Hot Water

Under house. Crawl
Space. Three days.
Water heater. Anger.

Plastic pipe. C-ment.
Sore back. Stiff neck.
Grave glare.

Eight-year-old. Small
Hands. Unafraid.
Chips in. Questions.

Satisfied. Crawls out.
My face. Turnabout.
Wide grin.

If Home Is Where You Go

If home is where you go; if
It is here you strike accords
Between the sometimes
Angry parties at the table;
If you are able to heed
The bell’s harmonic as
Another round begins,
You stand on solid ground.

If your facades and pulp
Fictions hit the trash bin
By the gate before you
Stump over the step
And through the door;
If home is where you log
The daily lore, your
Feet are on the floor.

If this is where you laugh,
Cry, get surprised, listen,
Touch, desire someone’s eyes,
Believe that they believe
That you are wise, then
You are wise. If you
Think of home as light,
As sanctuary, as air, or as

A beacon in the night that
If, by doom, went out would
Make your knees buckle
And your bones break—
If you would ache, like
A tooth full of decay or
A back after a long day—then
You are a sage and a seer;

You are a lovely footed
Messenger in flight.

Vengeance

King Kong can be tender.
He’s more than a mere beast.
Of feelings he can render
a bit of love, at least.

The Hulk is quite uptight.
His anger doesn’t hide.
But he is often right to
reveal his greener side.

Batman’s always scowling.
He wears a frightful frown.
He gets a lot of roweling from
a crazed and evil clown.

Monster, man, or animal,
the vengeance gene tells forth,
in vehemence turned brutal,
its horror and its worth.