Angry at old women
whispering their racist views
in the checkout line at the store.
Angry at myself
for putting my head in my hands
while listening to them.
Angry that I did nothing
because of bone fatigue
and a fear of my own harshness.
Angry again, switched to
default position: impotent
anger. I put my head
back into my hands and weep
that what I am, I despise
and what I despise most, I have become.
Dark Matter 
May 13th, 2014 at 7:08 am
One of the tags that I admire about your work, Tony, that I don’t feel I do well at all, is use the word “I” in a way that it doesn’t feel personal. As I read this piece, I don’t see “Tony” in line at the store, I find myself in the line, and I can feel the rage boiling up at words barely heard, the intellectual suppression of the anger, and the unhappiness that results when swallowing that force.
It’s a gift. It can’t be an easy gift to bear, but it is a power worth reckoning with.
May 13th, 2014 at 8:33 am
Thank you…that is what I aim for — for the “I” to seem like it’s not me.
Strangely enough, this is based on something that actually happened last night…except in real life I kinda went off and overboard on the two women in question. I( did release all that rage, and I do mean all of it…more, probably, than was necessary in the situation…