headline haiku

Many a sly aside
has been clattered quietly out
on a computer keyboard.
And flame-wars waged with
ergonomic, wrist-cushioning comfort
But for real anger, you need a typewriter.

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.