Just Another Angry Poem

Anger hurts, and the hurt makes me angry.
I’m angry that I’ve had to rebuild my self-worth.
I’m angry that the week and destitute are blamed
for their lack of a home, for bad teeth,
for no job and using Medicaid and food stamps
if they have a nice pair of shoes
as if nice shoes were a privilege in this country.
I’m angry.
I hurt with anger.
It’s like a chisel chipping bone from the skull.
I’m angry that pain teaches relief.
I’m angry that life leads to death and no one bothered
to come back to say something encouraging.
Jesus doesn’t count. 
God no. I want someone recent.
David Bowie, Chester Bennington, Robin Williams,
the young woman in salt Lake City Utah who stepped into traffic.
I’m angry that we are the source of our own suffering.
Don’t we suffer enough being human?
Isn’t consciousness anguish enough?
What happened to Hamlet? Does no one read Shakespear anymore?
Or the love sonnets and odes and death poems?
Have we fogottan the pleasant depths of each other?
I’m angry at our economic god. It will never crawl into the dark corners
with the addicted failures, the suicidals,
and hold them the way we would be held.
I’m angry and the anger hurts. It’s too much.
Too much. And unnatural. As if Abraham had ignored the saving angel
and killed his son anyway, then his neighor’s son
and the wives and second cousins and the dog
because he’d already gone this far, so why not.
I’m sick with rage.
I’d beat my bed with an iron rod if I could stand straight.
I’d beat the bed and the desk and topple the walls,
if every bed wasn’t already beaten and burned down to its springs.
If every wall ever built weren’t already blasted back to the mountains
and rebar stood up, like crooked middle fingers,
as if to say what we dare not say to ourselves.


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