“There was a steel pole running
from the floor to the ceiling
behind Gray’s chair, and we watched
him slam his head into the pole for
eight minutes as hard as he could.”
-Newsweek, April 9, 1984
Some execute their wayward
with a square-shaped gun
held perpendicular to the skull,
and the forehead lights up
as if, by god,
interjected with a new idea.
So dirty dogma deals
by sleight of hand,
by valve, by syringe, by kilowatt,
to lull, burn, shake
the cripple from his insight.
We don’t proclaim our madness
on a street corner by the Ritz,
but we tie our shoes
and button each button,
and our insanity gurgles
in the throat of a man
strapped by intravenous tubes-
the rapist and killer
who acts out your anger and mine.
Suburban hangman,
What does the gray matter?
When not to fold, bend or mutilate
matters more than
the chatter of the guillotine,
the bang of a trap door,
the steam of your witness
hyperventilating against the glass.