the corner has a song
i am dispassionate sometimes. i don't
blame my parents or how i was
bullied in school. i don't blame the drugs
i never took, the alcohol i never drank.
the devil's at work here. i can see his hands
in the cracks of a cup, the songs i skip on the radio,
the face of a girl who gets me hard
while i'm walking down the street.
i see them in the wood of a newly-torched house
and in the dust that looks like the ash
of three little kids, lost in the blaze.
and someday i think i'll repent,
because these thoughts are improper,
and my mother would be ashamed.
but i see his hands in that too,
and they glow. oh, they glow.
and i know it's mouth is opened.