In Baltimore
for wrestling
not Poe’s grave
or cognac or poetry
but to the desolate
image of mass crowds
screaming for blood
Muses can’t sing
about any righteousness
the frenzied mob
twisting & yelping
None but my own
no fault placed
on any other shoulders
that deludes me
subterranean Poe
dead & buried
for the sins of America
but hence more
I yell for blood,
pain and agony
Nevermore cries
the decaying raven
sinister plights
of human hunters
blood lust itself
overtakes any
and all compassion.