Good afternoon, armed meta-
physician; good afternoon,
thug drug dealer; good afternoon
to all the ships in port,  
good afternoon to all
the tanks in formation, all
the gunners straining to shoot,
all the cavalry wondering
why their horses are flying
so hapazardly overhead;
good afterpart afterglow
of the afternoon
of another day of war…
bang bang BANG,
yes I meant afterglow; how
can the similarities
have escaped you? 

How did you miss the foreplay
all morning, the undercard, the small
scatterling bullets
taking a life here and an arm there;
surely you were here for the main event,
the top of the bill, the monstrous moist licking
we took, the thrust
of what we gave right back?

How did you miss it? How do you not see
that it’s the only reason 
the armed metaphysician and
the thug drug dealer ever find
common ground — when the horses
fly through the sexy air and land with
grand breaks and splayed eyes,
strange bedfellows practically
spoon, war seems less violent
and more romantic, more red,
more chemical reaction, more
of what men have decided
makes them come.

A redtail in the backyard,
startled from its prey
as I stepped out to water the garden,
rose with mouse or squirrel in hand
and then was gone.

This dense city around it of no importance —
here was a hint of wilderness.
Its abrupt departure loosed energy
into the morning, which surged into 
my arms and at once I longed to fly.

Forget it all — the city,
its violent moves, its daily suppressions, 
its suspicions and its
easy flipping from embrace to smother.
Forget it all and rise to the simplicity

of soaring, swooping for meals, 
endless hours watching from high above.
God, I said, make me a hawk
and I’ll worship you like a hawk
with bones and blood and implacable eyes.

And then I went ahead
and watered the garden
and picked some cukes and 
killed some vine borers, came inside
and had coffee and searched for hawk videos

while I waited for it to happen. I’m still waiting.  
I’m sitting in the city
imagining not only
that I’m not here,
but that I’m no longer human.

Suddenly,
I find I am beginning
to laugh at myself.
I am not sure a hawk
can do that.

Elevator music
The sound of what’s wrong

In small rooms rising and falling
The sound of what’s wrong

In offices 
The sound of what’s wrong

These songs used to be actual songs
Now they’re the sound of what’s wrong

(In the restrooms the workers come and go
humming along to fake Coolio)

Someone likely my age who likely looks like me
takes raw music and polishes the edges off

Puts together a soundtrack
made for maximum uplift

and boost to productivity
or to calm a jittery rider

(man who isn’t a jittery rider right now?)
Isn’t it lovely instead to hear

something soft and pointless
and harmless and clear

(while back in the toilet they come and go
pissing and pooping to something slow)

Sound of something wrong
made comfortable so you don’t have to be 

uncomfortable
rising from street level to penthouse

or falling slowly but certainly
from penthouse to street level

What instruments are being played
Why is no one ever singing

These used to be real songs
They contained real people

Used to be sung now and then at least
Sometimes conveyed real feeling

(while in the hallways the sleepers come and go
stumbling along to Curtis Blow)

Elevator music
the sound of something wrong

No one knows anything about it
Songs used to be

full of fire and bad notes and grit
but in the elevator or the doctor’s chair

we don’t have a second thought 
we lie back and take it

and later we fall from on high
to watered down Clash on invisible speakers

and are not the least bit ashamed
It’s the sound after all of everything wrong

and who would debate that 
everything is wrong

meet the new moss 
same as the old moss

growing on the gangster
paradigm

all we wanna do is have some fun
lost in the supermarket

forgetting the words
as we shop

and the streets that bore it all for us
fall to riot and killing

but thanks to elevator music
we never have to hear about that 

Section One:

In a single essay, explain 
intersectional oppression.
Include the following terms:

a dugout of blood. 
a pitted bone.
a shop of rape. 
a sharpened stone.

Section Two:

If you turn out to be 
a scapegoat,
will you survive
your turn in the wilderness?

Show your work.

Section Three:

What five words
ought to be erased or respelled
in order to lift their magic?  

Defend your choices
without attacking others.

Section Four:

A piece of history
is sticking out of your eye.
Define the process
for removing it.  

Section Five:

Is there any room
for mercy in the new world
that has not already been shown
in the present one?

This world is going to end,
but first will come more rainbows.

The terrible beauty of supervolcanoes
when viewed from space
will likely look like an erupting field
of red and gray poppies.

The best and most startling
sunshine yellow in nature
is found in the dank moist center
of a slime mold.

Enough, enough,
modern prattlers,
supported by your self-referential peers
with affirmation alone
and negation alone;

enough with positivity
and abundance meditation,

enough with pessimistic messiahs
and apocalyptic vision.

Instead, balance your opinion
of the world
on the edge of this well-worn
dagger.

It’s a skilled cutler’s delight,
art made for killing
by someone who
could wring such perfect steel
from earth
and fire,
you just know
he had to be in love
with living
if he could put
such care
into creating this.