In some anger
there is cleansing.  In some rage
there is fire that removes
the ragged, leaves behind the
minimal, leaves behind a site
ready to grow scars and new flesh.

Some of us are born angry
because we’re needed; narrow-boned,
slinky as assassins, assigned
to the fire priests:  the
clean up squad, and while we burn
with the job, scream a little with it,
we mostly don’t complain. 

It would have been nice
to be cool 
and happy,
to learn, for instance, why everyone
likes swimming so much.  But
not all of us were born
to be happy. Some of us 
were born
to live an entire life
ablaze;

you can thank us whenever
you’ve stopped shouting at us.

Test poet, test poem,
test post —

is this thing visible,
audible, there for you?

Am I showing up?
Is there something present?

A small number of words
being sent into the air.  A small man

frantic for impact.  A small poem
typed into a white field on a small screen —

testing this as a connection,
failing in confidence, failing as art

when it’s this desperate, when it matters
too much to me.