Chopping away my

unconscious fears

with a hacksaw named

Mrs. Lamb von Hatchet,

I slip into that required


of happy, happy,

glad, glad.

But a little mad, mad

at the sickening-sweet scent

racial harmony has displayed

and the lacquered attempts


to cover slight mars

and jagged cracks

in what we call justice.

It is a fever

I possess

when such is the case.

A base for my

errant scheme

of things,

this fever-pitch fever

for the

one and the many

faced with

our monster.

Our creation.

Our burden.





Rod C. Stryker


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s