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| Personal background |
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Dead Participants
We all are born
with bricks
in our hands--
cold,
hard,
crisp
like a child's funeral in December.
As we grow
our bricks grow with us--
wrecking balls of hatred
bursting to swing free.
As we move
to thick grey streetcorners,
we unsheathe the flesh of sold sex,
take another step
to the rape
of that shiny boyscout
we saw on the news;
no one could believe
it happened to him.
As another serial killer
is announced by the smiling reporter,
--the talking head--
we shake ours,
add to the slaughter,
eat another pig-in-a-blanket.
WHY
do we forget
what we think
we cannot stop?
Does a lamb in the slaughterhouse
scream
because of the life lost
or the knowledge gained? |
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