The Moya View

The Numbers


I can’t walk into Walmart and not scan for shell casings,

see the bruises on the fruit and think of those who fell,

those now populating its aisles and borders

and calculate if it’s a number worth the killing

when the man in a heavy jacket with a bulge,

ramrod eyes and spine level as a concrete wall

decides to subtract brown and black from white.


I cant walk a crowded mall parking lot without scanning

for gapped car windows with no panting dogs inside,

searching for bump  stock impressions in the cloth and foam

venting the velocity of aggression in the unfolding humidity,

the rust in the panels mating with the rust in the soul,

the numbers adding to his perfect algorithm of annihilation

unaware that color is an impossible illogical subtraction.


The Aurora of the Dark Knight Rises stains every movie I see

adjusting my seating calculations towards the nearest exit,

making the ten dollar hustle two seats away a quaint fear

compared to the bloody page manifesto of nearby hands

restless for assault when the cool dark light hits every eye.

I’m safe, cuddled in the low numbers of  the matinee.

For now, I’m not worth the killing.


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