There are far too many Iagos in the world.
So why am I here swiveling my body,
stoked, fighting off the grave?  I crave sleep
the way an abused child seeks intervention.


I have no patience for Desdemona & Othello.
Such a raggedy way to be taken down.  To be so
virtuous, so, so pure.  Gimme some dirt, I’ll create
a masterpiece! It’s far more heady to run with jackals,


pick the city streets clean, to be a bum sucking
marrow from the bone, to gnash gristle to bits,
content to lick my haunches and howl.  But then
there is always that certain risk of being…


slapdash.  I mean, creating torment for the masses
requires unflagging discipline, and I’ve searched out that
exquisite wrench of pain, that inescapable need to be
upended and devoured—by your own kind.