Flat, light brown, shale; the jagged knife of justice
(Avenge, revenge, again and again):
stone #4 is an offering to the malicious gods
of seventh-grade boys,
whose only fates were dead mothers and
And so I wished for Roger Vanek to die
(no no not to die
the bird murdered, the murdered bird,
the bird I killed with a gun;
whirled BBs, two at a time
–to make sure I killed–
I murdered and murdered the bird
, but only–laughedatlaughedatlaughedat–or any number of the nameless, doomed fates of seventh-grade boys enacted from malicious gods,
with favored stones collected (a temple perhaps? Rattling my pocket and feeling the space between them dashed my hopes)
the words flowed from my mouth,
the anger flowed from my heart,
in a language of an alien type.
But still I did nothing.
So my wish died its own death. Since I had not blood-stained hands from sacrificial lambs, I accelerated towards my own impotence, a reaction acting unacting;
and so I saw myself clearly–a boy collecting rocks and grumbling about a bully who made fun of his father.
I walked on, not knowing where, but following the tug of my wounded pride to guide me.