The permanence of ink pounded into
bleached tree pulp, acid free
The stabbing of the fingers at levered keys,
launching steel catapaults of text that strike
a ribbon, hammer striking ink,
launching paper bullet.

Writing by hand takes too long
to sustain the passion
The typewriter is its own war drum
The rhythm keeps the vitriol fresh
Until the paper runs out. Or is pulled out,
and balled, and tossed into a wastebasket
to be forgotten or in haste posted
like a fire-and-forget missile
striking long after the anger has cooled.

The 500 pound
bomb blew up the tanker truck
and burned a hundred

The informant gave
new meaning to “reach out and
touch someone”, I think.

The rest of the world
celebrates labor May 1
but that’s socialist.

Vacationless, we
who labor precarious
toss beer cans for points

Summer of oh-nine
may you fade in memory
when good times return

Jones had said that Bush
knew 9/11 would come
and let it happen.

That’s just crazy talk.
What kind of politician
would say stuff like that?

Incredulity
is like Claude Rains’ Renault, shocked
at gambling at Rick’s