Assassin

I used to hunt deer with my dad. That's how
I learned to shoot, to stay hidden, prepare,
To take aim and stay calm, and also to know
When to give up the shot. I don't hunt anymore.
My father is dead, and the idea of shooting
A beautiful creature which hasn't done anything
Cruel or wrong eventually lost its appeal
For me. Now, I hunt people. I'm called
An assassin. I'm fine with the name. It's an
Honorable calling. I've killed a number
Of really bad people, and, doing so, I think,
Made many lives better.

There is no shortage of those who may kill you.
You may kill yourself or make somebody angry.
You may have a wallet and walk a dark street,
Or be black and alarm some homeowner or cop.
These sorts of victims seem like deer to me.
They may not be saints. Most are inconsequential,
Their lives not worth saving or taking away.
The people I kill are all-too consequential. I don't
Kill with passion or for my enrichment. I perform
Political acts.

You raise your eyebrows. ?Political acts??
Exactly. What sorts of acts constitute
Politics? Payoffs and violence; only those
Two. The rich have their way because
The support that they need can be purchased
Through bribes (and let's not waste our time
Attempting to separate those which are ?legal?
From those which are not), and the unending
Streams of their propaganda, advertisements,
So-called news, which capture the otherwise
Empty heads of those herds of deer lined up
To vote.

But payoffs alone are not always enough.
The deer may get grumpy. Sometimes
They will hear things they weren't meant
To hear, and the streets will fill up with
Misguided fools. ?We'll protest. They'll
See us.? They certainly will, but they'll
Sit in their offices, patient at first, aware
That such tantrums don't often last,
But, if people keep shouting, if crowds
Grow too large, the cops come in swinging,
The tear gas is lobbed, and people are
Injured. Some may be killed, as violence
Brings order back to the streets, and what
Was continues to be.

I am not wealthy (I travel too much),
And I won't be a sucker, like Gandhi
Or King or Jesus, a martyr to nonviolent
Fantasies. All that I have is my rifle
And killing. I caucus alone in the shadows
Of rooftops, eye to my scope, waiting
For chances to practice my politics,
Doing my share for the deer.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 59 times
Written on 2019-12-16 at 14:57

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