IN THE REIGN OF OUR TERROR
“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 Magazine, April 9, 1984
Some execute their wayward
with a square-shaped gun
help 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 sickness and mine
Suburban hangman,
what does the gray matter
when not to fold, bend or mutilate
matters more than
the clatter of the guillotine,
the bang of a trap door,
the steam of your witness
hyperventilating against the glass?
Previous/Next/Social Justice/Home