He never saw a violin.
But he saw a lifetime of violence.
This is not to presume
That if he had simply seen
A violin he would have seen
Less violence. Or that living among
Violins, as though they were
Boulangeries or toppling stacks
Of other glazed goods like young adult
Fiction, would have made the violence
Less crack and more cocaine,
Less of course and more why god oh why.
More of one thing
Doesn’t rhyme with one thing.
A swill of stars doesn’t rhyme
With star. A posse of poets doesn’t rhyme
With poet. We are all in prison.
This is the brutal lesson of the 21st century,
Swilled like a sour stone
Through the vein of the beast
Who watches you while you eat;
Our eternal host, the chummed fiddler,
The better tomorrow,