Perusing the Overnight News

Murder is the milk of human kindness,
Were humans ever honest about it.

Murder—not killing for hunger—murder
For anger, murder for vengeance, murder

For faith, for flag, for wealth, murder ordered
Up by authority, murderous mobs—

It’s all murder, numbing as any word
In the mouth after it’s mumbled enough.

Murder before someone murders you first,
Better arm yourself, be ready to draw.

No, it’s not the whole, not even the half
Of who you are, not even a large part,

But it’s a part, and if the percentage
Of actual killers among humans,

The passionate and the professional,
Briefly or ruthlessly intentional,

May be small, there’s never any Eden,
Never been one you can spot on the map,

Where there’s no such thing as murder at all.
So it’s in there, somehow, and who hasn’t

Dreamed, idly, once, maybe once in a while,
Of murdering someone to do some good,

Make the world a better place, minus one
Bad one? Murder, milk of human kindness.