12
ABANDONING
HATE
(a
voice
heard)
On
your
Harley
there
is
the
good
wind
and
traffic,
ok,
others
with
racy
steel,
but
envious,
laughable
eyes.
Unless
some
asshole
stops
you,
keep
on
going,
circle
a
wide
arc,
lay
a
little
rubber,
beam
before
the
hot
sun.
Stop
for
a
cold
beer,
maybe
two,
let
the
sweat
dry;
think
of
what
you’ve
known,
what
you
haven’t
seen,
here
in
the
liquid,
glaring
St.
Louis
landscape,
city
riven,
nigger
swarms,
nigger
bustling,
nigger
nights
burning
outside
lonely
doors,
nigger
vice,
crazy
nigger
fucks,
crazy.
You
get
beyond;
a
little
woozy
you
sprawl
beneath
an
oak;
you
remember
there
was
no
time,
even
in
the
era
of
love,
that
you
were
truly
welcome
in
your
own
mind,
no
time
when
you
didn’t
crave
gunfire
and
the
smell
of
gunpowder.
Blood
fixated
you,
seduced
you
to
risk,
floated
your
boat,
goaded
your
choice
a
blood-‐red
Harley,
crackle
and
fume.
Your
sons
knew
all
about
it,
almost
without
the
need
to
say.
Your
sons
took
mental
notes,
dated
empathetic
sweethearts,
married
to
build
coalitions
to
resist
in
the
neighborhood,
more
than
you
had
actually
thought
could
be
done.
Now
your
sons
have
returned
to
your
circle
of
the
wide
arc
with
much
to
be
done.
By
Keith
Moul