SAT IN A WHEELCHAIR

in a hospital storeroom

in some kind of subdued resigned strop

supervising

a

colleague

who’s

weak/thin/immature/lame/a fucker/some malnourished Romulan

all

i

can

think

of is

beating him to a silent toothless bloody pulp

with an oxygen manifold

or

whatever

this is i’m clutching in my sweating palm

that’s got nice weight and heft and mass and corners and grip

and

the

strange screaming presence of my own mind

some alien projection . . .

i

frown

like Atlas before the shrug