[PANK] :: 8.05 :: May 2013 :: Misanthrope :: Cindy King
I hate the sound of the human voice
as it bursts from the radio
at sunrise, when yellow holds its breath
and pretends again to be orange.
Daybreak: blood in the palm of morning,
prison-soap pink spilling onto the horizon
in the so-what of dawn.
I hate the sight of the human form
casting shadows on the grass at midday,
when sky blue becomes handicap in the anti-
freeze of the green afternoon. The full sun
streaming caution tape in the what-difference-
does-it-make of day.
I hate the scent of the human body
as it sweats in the subway. The earwax
of the setting sun, sunlight shines
through a prescription bottle
in the whatever of evening.
I hate the touch of the human hand
as it bids farewell. The suffocation
blue of sunset, when the moon rises
like grease cooling in a cast iron skillet
in the never-mind of twilight.
I hate the taste of the human heart
rising bitterly in my throat. Dusk
like a spike of black
ice growing from a stovepipe,
darkness, the dead eye of the stove.
In the biting, wordless, get-on-with-it of night,