(an ode to a missing neon “O”)
No place to keep oneself
The missing “O”, circle of life, bodes ill:
bodies forth brooding youths
hot with blood, lurking late
on Self St., lined with litter, alive
with recent ghosts.
Meanwhile, in the chapel,
the faithful light candles—each
a grudge—to St. Rage,
patron of knuckles, whether bare, brass, or broken;
shove fists into pockets and finger beads jammed deep in their dungarees,
heavy with sweat,
and lift their prayers and curses skyward,
or wherever they may be heard.
2 thoughts on “SELF ST RAGE”
Damn Freddy! I haven’t seen a white boy this angry since I went to see a Lewis Black show! By the way, thanks for the shout out.
I rant, therefore I am. Guess I’m an honorary grrl… and you’re welcome!