Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
even the violence
seems germane.
same old Wichita,
ain’t it?
bomb every
last life boat,
make the bird
on the bill
soar free above
that ancient tomb.
a camera’s just one eye
but damn
if we don’t know
how to whisk a crowd
after wrongful
frenzy.
the NRA pays less taxes than me
you won’t
find
that shrapnel
wound
in their
tax ID #.
the business
end
of muzzle
is only prelude
of holy
creation.
“be still
and know
any upcoming
death
will be
tax exempt.”
new tires
be heavy
with the paint.
enough brushstrokes
& i’ll become
a monster,
something to hunt
in the thunder
of borderless
volleys. we
set up a badminton
net in our backyard,
flanked by pines
& ragged tomato
starters. tapped
in the spikes,
painted court lines
in the debauched
Hansel-Gretel
tread of
imprecision.
stared at our
rackets, the birdie,
heard mother
calling dinner,
left the game
for weeks
as storm
replaced sun,
the net drooping,
showing
what lay beyond:
an overgrowth
soon-to-be-ensconced
by fresh parking,
some new tires
to slash.
