Glenn Shaheen



A storm prevents us from
checking the score, our

electronics frizzy. Things on Earth
so easily demolished, I don't ask for

much, thin packing
for this persistent wound, this unending

scent of devil. The devil
we'd like to grasp, to feel its charge flowing          

up our arms. Here a man crosses the
intersection diagonally, looks frustrated

when we in cars glare at him. A hand
in shadow to nervously clench

and unclench. Fury we know,
our hot juggernauts giving chase,

sprinklers going on the lawn. A day
passes and we want to raze something,

to participate in immediate destruction.
The corner is flooded with paint.

In the trees above, a cicada screeches.






I don't get the fury people feel towards each other for tiny maladies. I punched a hole in a wall once as a child because of a video game. People shoot each other over traffic infractions, or asking for help. Is anger our engine, the team we all get behind?