The Late-Night Reader as Word-Chipper Tiger

Shove long, lumbering texts in one end,
Watch lyric poems shoot out the other.
Fictional villains enjoy themselves,

Can live with themselves, don’t have to change
Their memories or identities
To tolerate their own existence.

They’re not predicated on others.
They don’t care about the audience.
They suffer no moral injuries.

That’s why they’re so delicious to play.
Actual sinners can’t stand themselves
In the light of their own behaviors.

They reread and retell their stories,
Like circus tigers clawing through mange.
They’re endlessly raking up fictions,

Chewing them back to splinters of sin.
It’s hunger as obsession. The mind
Accusing itself needs fresh villains,

Mustachioed. imaginary
Ringmasters with wooden expressions
To convert into trivial sins.

Every poem is a trivial sin.