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It's in the seeing red,
an animalistic fist hastily launched,
a barstool sack of bricks smash,
anger in the thrower’s eyes,
in a flash they dye regret.
It's in the baseball bat crack,
scribbled in that nothing right about it grin,
confusion bitterly leaking from the tramp,
then two sets of lightless eyes.
It’s in the handgun sight shake,
the husband knowing he could never pull the trigger,
a shadow of shock in his eyes when he does,
killing, he thought, would have been much harder.
It’s in the back rooms and boardrooms too,
bands of brothers in terror cells and oil vampires
at their conference,
blood gorged wallets and arms drunk specters,
death and dollar signs on their minds,
but nothing behind their eyes.
It’s in their darkness we live.
Us, an orgone energy flow.