When the bombs come
ones-twos-threes like little
ducklings trailing along in
the pond’s flat gaze, seemingly
never ending; surface to air
missed. The screaming mono-
linguistic tongue, turned on deafened
friends who shrug, as capitalist
bobble head Jesus, nods
and waves, then with an indifferent
side turn, stares vacant;
as the proud suckling tit
withers, Madam Liberty’s
flamed-out.
tamingthemilemonster 