Pieces of rage

Tear me to pieces–
for what? To be more holy?
More open and closer to God?

As a child
sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor
playing one of those old NES Nintendo games
where the game itself was this large brick-like
cassette that you jammed into the machine
Super Mario Brothers.
And when you lost, you got
GAME OVER
in that scientific strange rigid junky font
across the screen.

Reality.
Rage in reality
coming from within,
rage boils like stew
it erupts like a volcano —
fists pounding on the wall between us,
yelling,
RAGE.

It’s nothing pretty.

Maybe I should be ashamed–
but no.
Well deserved rage.
“…and don’t be sorry,” Kerouac wrote
in Desolation Angels.

I won’t be.

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