17 August 2010 | Vol. 10, No. 2
On Soft Terror
How many public sinks left running for ghost hands?
Your change given in foreign coins and still
coming up short. Imagine all the salt shakers
loosened upon the world; names scrawled into sidewalks;
people who hate people and work in services
you have to tip; patrons making waitresses cry right now.
Right now there are sleeper cells waiting to hit you
hard on the shoulder as you make your way home.
When I can finger someone who looks responsible
for these acts, I follow them home, dump their trash cans,
throw a brick through a window, take a long piss
on the front door. Harsh, yes, but half measures are what
brought us to these times. When those sirens wail for me
I know I am an ancient god, running from all I've done.
About the author:
Steven Breyak really likes being a poet but would also like to be a short story writer. Another thing he would really like is to have a great job at some university you've all heard of to talk about in this sentence, other than his great job with Emerson College's Young Writers in the summer of 2008. Around here, he'd like to mention a fellowship he received that would make all of you say, "Oh, that's why he's famous," despite his lack of fellowship and fame. You can read more of his work on the Web and in print in places such as Poets and Artists, Thieves Jargon, Night Train, Softblow, Tattoo Highway, Sawbuck, and Word Riot. He is search-engine friendly so feel free to search and read.