pinioned, beneath the wreckage, tight –
covered in oil and blood, mixed with vacant
stares of bystanders too indifferent to
the plight of the real unheard to get past
their own sense of moral superiority
the dogs are always howling, and
the roaches crawling, here
in the house of rage
we will not call thievery honor,
and we will not stand idly by as
rape is passed off as some sort of
harmless rite of passage, practiced
power is not truth, but
truth is the only real power;
habitual servitude breeds only
heedlessness in the cause of
masters who’ll never even
know your blessed name
for all names are sacred in
the house of rage –
and the antecedent fracturing
of simple trust, freely given
shall not vanish from the earth
but for now, pinioned beneath the wreckage,
we reach bleeding hands towards
the mendicant dwellers
really, the few survivors
of the house of rage
