THE POETRY OF BOMBS

                                                                            —~---                                                                                                                            —----

What kills me

aren’t the guns

you tote but your thinking

that’s  in the chambers

and clips, the magazines

no one else can read

but still dread on hearing

what they report.

Language created the world

where tools can be made,

and now language lives inside

the spare parts

whose instruction manuals

are a poetry of rage and revenge

translated into an idiom of

technology that surveys the

outcome of another

kind of  Big Bang Theory..

It’s not about being

left alone any longer,

your message, inscribed

in manufacturer’s short hand

on casings spent  faster than

a drunk’s last dollar,

Bullets whistle

the language

of your rights

as they pass though

the skulls of anyone
who happens to be there,
expecting nothing but
the  light to change
and cold meal
warmed later in a microwave.