September 21, 2011 11:08pm EST

Fuck Fucker buckets Fuck buckets of rum. The rum in the punch
or the punch and then the rum
to numb the cheek and letters to
Abraham fathering three religions, though
they were rejected by Albert Rosenfield who unbeknownst to you
until this instant
was in fact
the son of the Padishah Emperor
Shaddam Corrino IV (real life true story time
trials conducted entirely under the supervision
of his holiness the Dalai Lama and the Kwisatz Haderach
to induct the veracity of his claims under perjury of spice regarding
the origin of the twine used to bind Laura Palmer’s body
and the shells fired into Mark MacPhail), the art of war
scarring the face of Arrakis
your hands holding hands
touching the metal waiting
for the shock sure there will come rains
to test the faithful not in
vain appreciation of the tragedy
become innocent and martyred
on the ground outside a burger joint
or in the halls of doubt and recantation
justice served and justice denied
a stay of execution
appeals denied, rappers and Jimmy Carter
talk-boxing again around the signal
lights along the shore
shallow rocky spears upthrust
against Davis’ prow
the assassin’s needle
seeking Atreides' life
Muad’Dib bends like a reed in the wind
which I guess you cannot do when you are strapped to a table
the state has laid out and prepared for with body and the blood
the Shadout Mapes had her blood mixed by the hunter-seeker too
an ultra short acting bartiturate here
a chemical paralytic there
passed into law by a Reverend
which fact lends us only a greater question
of the irony all this culture
can bring to bear
which we cannot stand
to watch, put off thinking
of, sit quietly as we take in
the beauty of this life when
it turns toward the onset of terror
admired as it destroys
society’s angel with head bowed
the killing word silently spoken
Troy Davis and Mark MacPhail asleep
inside the bullet, cheek to cheek
rest now, in peace
dreaming no more of the heroes
who let you down