Let us turn on an outside light,
and see what type of moth will come:
This is not the end-times— I pray
it will soon be less subtle than this.
Soon, we believe, the priest will
again walk with the soldier.
We do not have personal hardware stores:
There are prisons in the paths of these
tornadoes. I wanted to come over, talk: have
some of that cake.
Everything here, Darling, is attached to death.
We calculate the number of men per floor and
collisions of car to person for every new mile
of black-topped road: This is not neutral territory.
Lee Atwater died for me.
Everything is soft here, Ben Franklin, everything is soft.
Thank you, Mr. Lee Atwater, you are now dead, but that is not
what I am thanking you for.
This mystery. The existing laws calling for the seizure of
property. The thickness of the air here—the insults of a
young Dorothy Parker.
(I am rising now A dollar bill, signed at the armory,
pens exchanged, and events recorded.
Think about the relationship
between the image and the emotion.
If you want to participate in intrigue—I’m with you.
The gentle complaining among co-workers.
German drug companies, and the
space between the switch and the energy.
With movements like this, how many switches can be
flicked? Which mood, or point of elevation
or decline
would you like to perform in?
The way engines feel. “Oil me, you clod, or I will soon oil
myself. And my household.”
Every imposter dis-figured.
I’m glad it was you
and not me, Mr. Lee Atwater.
© 1992 Daniel X. O'Neil
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