Hang ’em High

When missile parts are found

bound for North Korea on a miner’s pass,

carving submerged stretches of the Panama Canal, wrath

silent as a Snowden redux, we

may never discern why. Whimsical armageddon

gauging Oahu? Or plainly, ballistic tests

set for islands depopulated

at the behest of dictators who wish seagulls

would go bang?

 

But Zimmerman’s spellbound beauty

will forever be a tale of a man

and his gun. That fragile solitude of American oblivion

we discharge the same in rap songs entrepreneurial

as dust caked country Broncos

where only the west

has won.

 

Shoot first into the starched mist,

where humid hoodies cling like

little sisters, because the winner

is always the living who deem those shot dead

merciful from an afterlife, if merely anthropologists

speaking through artifacts, now only acrid animals above a mantle.

So hang ‘em high, the Seminole and Apalachee

tangled in Florida branches

of the state’s great Slash Pine.

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