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By: Ezekiel Gonzales
The cool prick of the stick,
Little puddles of blood for other me
An axe-murderer?
No, a simple village man
He is no such dainty puddle; the little ripples flow backward
His right eye watches the world, the left—
he’s a man of science, don’t blame the lab coat
Samples of projects;
joints from your knee,
spinal cord—a pretty necklace
nerve endings for the electric chair
Scribbling against the board he notes,
“Too much flesh,”
Inconvenient
“Small bones,”
Ice cream stains
“Sickly muck,”
Infestation
He is no Batman; no man of vigilantism
He is no Iron Man; no man of machinery
He is no alien; no man of other world
He is no man, he is no beast
He is the collaboration of victorious science
A certificate in lust,
Shed no tears for those of mangled corpses
Motherly hugs is that of children dreams
A father to catch a ball
Finally, a boy grown from socks to shoes
The rambles of a man of solitude
The village makes no haste,
for things they cannot see are not there
