There’s a man in an leather chair, jacket unbuttoned, in a shadow
bearding onto past midnight,
5 o’clock and the last call for punching out – all the work-a-day seems years ago
Now he sits, almost self-assured, in the midst of a harried mess;
Sipping a glass of something steadying and resolving, to write down the memory
of all the journalists and TV camera newsfolks, who breach personal space,
to broach loaded fickle questions, personally – insinuating –
how could a person be so self-righteous, while generally he stares into vacuous eyes,
and recites like safety measures, controlled de-escalations that the training
for such rote onslaughts and collisions, to preserve face, have conserved
as they march closer and closer,
attempts and barrages, want, and getting, -into his
It was the celebration of the Nation’s independence just last weekend,
and I picture how a General might stroll through his old neighborhood,
As I walk my streets, by my childhood home, where my neighbors shoot off bottlerockets
(though fireworks are outlawed) and I stare down the cop cars as they rush off and bid
myself think of what it must be like to be the type of man to
graduate Princeton with a one-hundred-eighty-five page thesis on
“A Critical Analysis of Revolutionary Guerrilla Organization in Theory and Practice”
now a Joint-Chief-of-Staff
the scent of gunpowder in my nose,
I damn the Man, but god damn Man,
I have some sense for true things…
Some men, I must report
Remember their hard times, whoever was in charge of the outfit and who ran opposition
–and carry memory like mettle
Others are more uniform, and simply bury such things
What makes hard men, can make shallow, like grave efforts turn rotten
And as conscience makes cowards
Corrupts even a King.
But a King’s death, met on valor,
Deserves twice the unmask’d idol,
Cold Lead could have won,
Guillotines could have stopped the steel glower,
If I just could have couped up
You meddlesome kids.
The Haunted Typewriter 