…to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance! – Walt Whitman
I want to get all my mistakes,
injustices, and regrets,
real or imagined,
and trick them into thinking
that they’ve gotten the better of me,
that I’m finally dispatched.
I want them all to meet
in some remote location,
like maybe a big house in the country,
where they’ll sit by a stone fireplace,
and smoking La Gloria Cubanos,
laughing at how they used me,
made a fool of me.
I want them to feel absolutely certain
that I’m gone.
What they won’t know
is that I’ll be outside hiding in the woods,
camo on, face blacked,
getting their bodyguards lined up
in my cross-hairs.
They won’t hear the shots
over their loud boasting.
Then I’ll appear,
to their terrified surprise,
ghostly behind the couch,
and they’ll beg me to reconsider,
yelling, Wait! There’s been a mistake!
But it will be too late.
I’ll take them out one at a time.
Then I’ll mess with a gas pipe
that just happens to run down the wall
right near the fireplace.
I’ll pop it with the butt end of my automatic
and it’ll start to hiss,
my cue to saunter out indifferently,
rifle slung over my shoulder.
I’ll open the front door
and walk slowly across the lawn
into the foggy night,
as behind me the big house
explodes in a series of deafening volcanic eruptions,
boiling flames 100 feet high,
sending shards of wood and metal and embers
raining down on everything,
explosion after explosion,
but I will not flinch.
Metallica’s Fight Fire With Fire
will have started to play in the background
as I stroll in silhouette against the monstrous blaze,
all the consequences of my every indiscretion
dissolving in smoke and flames
as I disappear into the fog
clutching a secret no one will ever know
but you and me.