Howl In Indignant Rumbling Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

Amongst the multitude
my actions would
be as
effective as
pushing used
hypodermic needles
into my skin.
I understand the
nuances and the
subtle suggestions.
Not completely deaf
to the
insisting pounding
of the hammer, but
absolutely deaf
to the
masturbating Druids
that flick their
hands in mild
contempt.
I am as victim
to sin as
the next man; as
void of mercy
as any saint.
Picturing a
garden, a refuge,
a closed in
slice of
serenity.
Vines and bushes
proliferate
and softly
furred creatures
dangle their
hooves into
the drinking water.
Bricks escape and
so to the fraying

I resume.

Bending will to
frozen lakes
gesturing with
impatience in
their solid state.
I will assume
the stance of
one who is
deeply concerned
with your opinion.
I'll rely on
the collective
inability to
think individually.
This will be what
it needs to be.
Together, we forsake
our vocal chords
and howl
in indignant
rumbling as
we count the
fingers on
our hands.