With all you got. Cut it in
half. Draw, quarter, pull it
at the root.
With many weapons
in its many forms. Follow the trail
to where the money is, often your first clue.
Pull back the caked layer of makeup
that covers the ingrown blemishes
pockmarking the ugliness. Un-pull
Gird that belt around your waist, your
loins like a man, strap on the armour
I hope has some dents and wear.
You’re gonna need it.
A friend told me how Greek warriors
at a point lost in time
would fight to the death
wrestle their opponent to the ground
slice a line into the flesh with a curved blade
from the throat to the gut. Spill
the blood of their enemy, entrails.
The devil has a knife and he’s wrestling you.
Would cut you in half as easily
as you cut a strawberry in the morning
beside the sink. Stain your floor like the cutting board
wipe out your life as a man wipes a dish.
It’s no small matter.
because it is fighting you.
© 2009 Andrew Kooman