M is for mescaline, for peace
of mind.

O is for opiates on my
hip, just for kicks.

D is for drink, drink
all over my lap and belly.

S is for smoke
the color of eyes.

L is for my life’s
that’s wrecked. Got no job,
no true home,
family’s a cipher,
love’s a horizon.

G is for the gold rush,
the hope of easy street, the fine wares
of gangster and greedyguts,
for groaning
under the weight of pretending
that I expect something to go well.

C is for cleaning up
the stains that are always on the floor
no matter how C for careful I am.

A is for absolution, absinthe,
how amazing the way I am when left
to my own devices.

Z is the place I end up
when I lose the thread. The last place
I remember to look. The place
as distant from a beginning as I can find.

If you enjoy cutting others

If you learned that early
and found you had a knack for it

If you get a kicky gut-gasm when you feel
soft pillow puncture or shock of bonestrike up your arm

If you love the weapons and own them by the dozens
carry them in pairs in boots in pockets and small of back

If you know how to use them
not from movie or video but from hard training

If your family taught you manhood
depended on hard skills like these

but if even beyond that you learned
that for you it was a pleasure and not grim need

and you ran from that 
and became a good boy and never hurt anyone

except that one time —
maybe two if you are being ruthless

and honestly
all you’ve cut since then has been yourself

and even then only a few times
and those were a while ago

if you are settled and urbane
and only taste the desire to cut now and then

and never do it with your knives
at all

tell me
are you still a monster

Salt in the wood
from hands on the handle
for many years of work;

leave it out on the lawn
after raking and you may see
the porcupine come and gnaw it up.

His long teeth carve and cut across the grain;
his back arches up against attack.
If you think of going out to stop him,

recognize that he will move slowly
if he does decide to leave the tool alone,
and that’s no given; he may instead choose

to do nothing, his steady assault
upon the handle certain and assured
in the knowledge that there’s really

nothing you can do about his appetites.
When he leaves, you’ll put the rake away.
The incident may change you. Maybe you’ll feel

the toothmarks under your hand next time you rake,
and think then of how your sweat
must have tasted.  Perhaps

you’ll lay your tongue to the wood
to find out for yourself what the attraction was.
In your dreams you’ll imagine you own a back

bristling with quills.  You’ll begin to move more slowly,
deliberately, confidently.  You’ll leave your home
and move to the woods, 

learning to love the feel of leaves
beneath your feet, start to wonder
why anyone would want them gone.