He arrives early morning on his mother’s lawn,
each trembling leaf of grass a potential of his. A hero
with a feats backlog: he walks through the glass door
like it’s a waterfall; two knives, blades for handles,
slicing his subgod palms as he smashes the all-seeing
screens, defies the tricky stars emitted from the microwave,
tips over the big blue fish-tank swarming with flash-eyes
of Zeus. In Athene’s flak-jackets the cops approach
this infinitely armed Achilles throwing canned goods.

There’s an impossible, bearable weight to the world,
pressing down the soil of thought into a diamond self;
each phrenic facet adamant, unmistakeable, as he teems
out the door onto the street. The gunshot is quieted
by a garbage truck. On his body his mother falls.