He/She/It
What manner of human being, creature, beast, monstrosity
Believes with such absolutely unbending certainty,
In the solemnity of his/her/its hubristic indomitability,
That nothing he/she/it says, thinks, unleashes
Can possibly fail to effect the trajectory of fate, destiny,
Alter the course of tribes, nations, constellations, cosmoses?
That species of he/she/it would have to be, to be sure,
A very arrogant alpha-Hitlerian son-of-a-bitch or pinscher bitch,
Who sees existence — hopes, dreams, love, peace —
As nothing more than a Borges/Kafka/Beckett absurdity
Painted by Bosch, Breughel, Schongauer, Dürer
And executed, on Facebook, MySpace, by John Wilkes Booth,
For an audience weaned on Giles P. Richardson, Herbert Khaury,
Domingo Samudio, Paul Reubens
(The Big Bopper, Tiny Tim, Sam the Sham, Pee-wee Herman).
Bring, to me, he/she/it. Let he/she/it kneel at my feet,
Confess that life is just a game of tiddlywinks, spin the bottle,
Kick the can, catch-as-kitsch-catch-can, hide-and-seek,
And I'll show you a died-in-the-woolly-mammoth hosebeast,
An authentic Lascaux-cave Sasquatch, a Medusa-haired Rapunzel,
A twin-headed human-growth-hormone harpy Mark McGwire,
Fully capable of Giftgasing God, at His own rigged game.
Believe me, Adolf was a he/she/it high-kicking Nazi kike-piker,
Compared to my Ivan the Demjanjuk Terrible paranoias,
Which, like those he/she/its, have taught me to realize
That the slimy trail of a frail snail sipping from the Holy Grail
Leads, beyond the rails' pale, to Auschwitz's ash ponds.
06/05/09 - (2)
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