there is nothing sadder
than the rumor of a miracle,
than the starving eyes—millions!—
which suddenly appear and shuffle
through the streets seeking
a salvation they haven't earned,
don't deserve, but to which they
believe themselves entitled

many would settle
for chariots of smoke
if they were comfortable and reliable—
many do, and blame their tears
on the persecution of the wind

there is no power sufficient
to make things right

just as we begin
to conquer our tendency toward violence
we are tempted again
with fresh and eager tyrants
begging for destruction

is there value to outrage
without the possibility of justice?

if we can't rouse Vishnu with love,
we will startle him awake
with our works of hate

sometimes
wickedness is almost easier to stomach
than incompetence