Sometimes a hatred grows
in and around and toward me,
thickening the air and my blood,
to slow the pace of life.
The revulsion lingers, and
I languish,
until by some miracle of angular momentum
the hatred transforms into a plan of action
and I imagine guns, ropes, pills,
most of all blades of every kind:
kitchen knives,
straight razors,
cold, surgical steel
swiped like a credit card across the carotid artery
in a swift, practiced flash.
Details multiply, terrify, astonish.
But do they also liberate me
from that thickened air, from
that hot revulsion in my blood?
Plotting and planning are an indication of
life.