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One Bezoomny Chellovek

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Alexander, what would you do
if you were in my place?
Would you slash your cutthroat britva
through a drunken stranger’s face?

Would you chuckle as the endless stream
of blood poured down the street?
And grin each morning when you saw
its stain on the concrete?

Would you drink your milk with drencrom?
Would you swallow every drop?
‘Til angels stand before you?
‘Til the sculptures start to talk?

Would you see your face reflected
in the horn-rimmed, thick-lensed specs
of the man whose wife you spat with
as he dreaded what was next?

With rage and angst in every bone
of you does Ludwig fill?
Does music taint your mortal soul
and make you want to kill?

Have you no soul with which to act
in just and moral ways?
Have you know love to guide you
on your vengeful escapades?

Have you know feelings of remorse
each time a human should?
Can you act without
regret or doubt?

Sometimes I wish I could.



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