Lost but tough
on a strand of human DNA
some little bulb,
a quirk, a mere caprice of God's hand
makes something live in us,
some tendency that wants a fight,
needs one,
sees fury as the only viable act.

Why else the chemo-electric potency
that forms the fist and clenches the teeth?
Ghosts of tigers, of headhunters, of dawn raids.
But malevolence lives even in lifeless objects:
the sticky zipper, the paper jammed copier
were meant for fists
that want to lash out at the evil, the stubbornness,
the whatever-it-is responsible for broken toys,
welts,
coffins so early.
Nails in the mouth.
Warts on the heel.
Grab the guilty face and pound it bloody.
You want want want to do it,
no lie or literacy can hide that fact.
Life frustrates, provokes heat, makes
cut-up knuckles
the global constant.