Bad Kimchi

The knife gleams
Without light
In the wrong hands:
His.

Perhaps when the kimchi has gone bad,

Or his inner cyborg ranted robotic orders
To drape a red bandana of no cloth
Upon his throat.

It was bad Asian food

Or Terminator programming
That stripped him
Bare buttocks
In the dark corner
Of the kitchen,
Waiting for the
Korean take-out
Delivery man
To enter—
The knife still gleaming.

It was

One or the other
That stuck the samurai sword
In the dry wall
Or yelled “rape” into raindrops
Soaking boxer briefs.

It was

One or the other
That cried tequila tears
Because he wants to fail
And can’t.