Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The beak that wreaked havoc is pressed against brick,
As useless as the pistol of Bloody Bill Anderson
after his last Missouri rampage.
How many dreams in this Hannah-Barbera head
have ended with my fingers in the Gripmaster embrace
that bulges eyes, cuts tweets in mid-throat?
How many times have I roared at my pocket Kissinger
To add the next name, to start the next tape,
To find an effective new alias for vengeance
Only to mumble just under Henry's hearing,
"We could kill him, but that would be wrong."
A wish made manifest is vanity
But so is the hope for patterns in bodies
of dead birds, dead rebels
deleted names in the enemies list.
The funeral no doubt brings friends and relations
Armed with weapons creating a nail-gun chorus
Overwhelming my screams to my pocket Kissinger
Enemies large and small fly as fast as woodpeckers,
Who use strips from the list to line their nest.
April 28, 2010