Forget the question Who is this?. Ask instead
What do I have in my hands? and compare
your receiver with my gun. Then listen,
my friend, to the sound of the butt of it
kissing your son's skull. Keep in mind
those roadside signs of ours: men
you've worked with. Their open necks spill
crimson scarves: the smile we finally show
they can't resist. No, you can't talk to him.
Soon, you'll hear a dial-tone, then
the whisper of the front wheel of his bike
spinning in the grass half-way down your street.
He almost made it home. You were too busy
with your union meetings to be useful. But
companies don't hold grudges like people do.
Tomorrow, the gates of the factory
will still be open for those of you who
know how to work hard and quietly.
Lee N Mylar does not write poetry, fiction or libretti. Lee exceeds the constraints of the apolitical industry of literature, ironically, by submitting veiled revolutionary manifestos in the form of (cue hand-gestured quote marks) poems to the literary journals that get mentioned in The Age, then uses the rejection letters as rollie papers. Lee hates anagrams, and harms Satan age.
