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Ken Cathers

malice

violence is a language
learned from birth

that casual slap 
on the head
an arm bent back

it is the first phrase
remembered

a rock thrown
in the dark

a complex syllable
a curse hissed

how easy the rhythms
come to us, the
smug cadence of lies

how helpless we are
against it

hand slammed
in a car door

the pain    naked
beyond words

catch that quick glint
of  malice
           in your eyes
 

lazarus returns

four days is not
a long time
to be dead

but the man
you bring back
is lost, confused

a poor act
for the big stage.

he refuses to mingle
stumbles into dance
has started to smell.

he wanders off
and keeps going.
becomes an imperfect miracle

a minstrel
a voice in the desert

is seen in the distance
a tatter of rags
befriended by dogs.

there are no new lines
in the story, no roads
left to follow

only the shadow world
the stray Angel of sleep
that beckons

he is empty inside
returns to the cave
rolls back the stone

remembers again
what it is to die
 

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