ISM

Driving out of town, fast but not too,
sharing a cockeyed joke and smoke, sniffing
the swag in the numbered box in the small
peace-loving snow-peaked banking kingdom,

then numbering victims with ballpark
estimates, so much plastique equals so
many spoony teens, truculent supervisors,
devils, devils, devils: sharp algebra

of extirpation. Now flip on the dinky
radio, and wait for the news at the bottom
of the hour: time, weather, local swill,
then, driving away still, the paroxysm:

the rebar separates from the concrete
the glass separates front the mullions
the skin separates from the bone
the mother separates from the son

no amount of money will fix it
no amount of campaigning will fix it
no amount of prison will fix it
no amount of mammaplasty will fix it

Wild screams, from the gut, then tears of
joy. Embraces, new cigarettes, still driving.
So much lucubration, so much knowledge gained
and love. Hours in cold rooms, concoctions.

Against such frippery as we declare, against
all palliative measures. Against the otiose
and the dumb. Some days are better than
others, but when ceiling finally kisses

floor, no day could be more cozy. Sleep
will come tonight, still driving, in black
coffee doses on the back seat, counting
victims jumping over fences, like sheep.