Again I dreamed vividly,
imagining the wait, or,
the anticipation
of the imminent fight.
I was hesitant to say
I would do it before.
Knowing what, afterwards,
would swim back and forth
in my (and let’s say it)
testosterone composition.
Bodies etched on the floor
by the permanent light.
Blood dripping under flash,
and I stepping back to avoid
soiling my heavy gear,
thinking of its worth.
I did look up. I couldn’t help.
The bulge of the muscle,
the killer’s eyes, pressing,
the head, the vacant mouth,
the violence triggering
my autoflight instincts.
That’s why I left my home,
my country, my democracy.
And it follows wherever I go.
Through the rare earth glass,
through my opaque retina,
to my feverish dream.
jam11
