Revenge 

All those years spent
Plunging a sword into the heart
Of a phantom, sick

With the thought that they might
Never find the perpetrator

Obsessed, stricken with a gnawing rage

Until, finally, finally,
They track him down and there
He stands in an orange jumpsuit
In a court of law, handcuffed
And so much smaller than
You ever could have imagined,
Pleading guilty to a heinous crime

A toothless old man,
A slump-shouldered, sorry specimen,
And, of course, you feel cheated

This isn’t the monster you had in mind

---

Substitute

Dancing is a poor substitute for sex
And sex is a poor substitute for heroin
And heroin is a poor substitute
For eternal bliss and talking about eternal bliss
Means talking about some version of Heaven
That, virtual or not, may or may not exist,
So we’re back to the dancing and the sex
And the heroin, back to the high school gym
And the prom, back to the cheap vinyl back seat
Of a Buick two-door, back to the filthy,
Needle-strewn room in an abandoned house off
The boulevard, back to hope and wishful thinking,
Back to a few snatched moments of pleasure or
What passes for pleasure, back to what can only
Be called a poor substitute for something
Less ephemeral, something better, something else.

---

Paul Van Peenen lives in Eugene, Oregon and has had work published in Poetry Super Highway, Autumn Sky, Seattle Review, Literary Veganism and Woodcrest Magazine among other venues.