america and i love controlled explosions, explosions
more than control, but on control contingent: sigh
of pressure-sealed can pop promising more, greater
sighs; recursive chip driven injection upon
incendiary injection pound the pistons out, pound
me, hollering, down america's ragged redline
highway; pound four two thousand pound LGBU,
“bunker buster” bombs down, with aplomb, on
apartment complex teatime, a dream of hitler
laid open on the guillotine, the regime
a headless menace and the kebab shack intact,
roads raked from rubble clear enough
to drive a bulldozer down and later, shrouded
bodies, parts, stone and teeth rattling in the bed,
a pickup truck back up; explosion, now, the fire
on the TV a wick of bone burning off the oils
of the ancient tank, its three-man crew, and
the chemical magma that first ignited it
in triune sacrifice combined, "live" on primetime,
backdrop to our safe american evening, vehicle
of the many smaller explosions we may adore
or buy, a flame of memory, like those of
kennedy and other honored unknown fedayin,
calling the roll of the dead again, stay tuned, we'll be
back with a report from the scene of attack; then the Sponsors
control their own explosions: the electron beam on
the screen, icon in retina, endocrine bath rushing,
rupturing, creating desire, effacing all the faceless nameless dead,
quick, controlled bursts of hope to punctuate the dread tidings
of the futile news, thanks for staying tuned, now
we've got the general in the room to tell us what to
do. my america and i, our digits fumble the buttons
on the controller, switch it over in spasms
of light to someone else's volatile plight –
fiction, foreigner, or pariah class, so long
as, and better, him than me – in love with
our controller, our options, enamored of our
zoroastrian pageantry of fire, our pyrotechnique
of myopic vengeance, and of our own desire.