Endless Means of Bad Ends

When I can smell the food of the man at my back
eggs, ketchup, buttered toast and fried potatoes
there’s this paranoia gripping me
that at any second he’ll fling a heaping forkful –
splat – into the back of my head
hashbrowns, drippy yolk
like a big soft bug on the windscreen
oozing down my hair, neck
under the collar all along the backbone
filling into my asscrack
I sit, hunkered, shoulders hunched
anticipating this ridiculousness
can I really think people are this way
would do such a thing
that I’m worth the waste of their meal
evidence found in a search of my feelings
says it is so…

abrupt viciousness is everywhere
in the holy, the homeless, the haughty
and you poke your head out often enough
into their world
they will hit you with something
their morality, mental illness, mirthless superiority
all window dressing to disguise their hatred
under masks of justifiability
you should respect his beliefs
she’s mad from deprivation
they worked really hard for their money
much harder than on their feeble excuses
for what they put on my head
for how they’ve got me stuck at their windshield
pelted mile after mile by sudden blood-spattered death

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