a wave of melancholy drags me in a downward spiral

                  shadowboxing against the anguish and despair of the world.

                  is evil so banal that we all  have a part in every killing in Iraq,

                  murder in Darfur, and rape in dark tenement hallways?

                  are these evils shared experiences that do not exist

                  only because they are not spoken of in polite society?

                   is there no one to jar us from the contentment

                   Chekhov writes of in “Gooseberries”?

                   is the greatest evil not the man who commits the bad act

                   but the ten men who know it exists and say nothing?

                   Gentle reader; forgive me for this bleak poem!

                    I forgot that I am your performing monkey

                    who writes poems solely to titillate and amuse you

                     so you can forget the tragedy of the daily life of others,

                     and you have “shit for brains”.