[Alex Pepple]

The Finishing Touch


My craft is rich with history—it’s time-tested
trade, ideas—think Samson and his ass’s
jawbone, Gilgamesh, even Cain who bested
that fated one. My skills can’t rival Nasa’s
but we aim both for that transcendent blast
of rocket. Fess up now that everyone
like us, adepts, gets common stuff recast,
disguise at play. My cane can prop or stun.
I build; I seek that spot for our dry run.

Call me the Maker. Yes, my work is pain-
staking. It’s danger-filled, production rate
is slow. Barbarians who call me insane
yet click for strikes far-off, inside our state.
These gods of war disclaim the uncaged ghost—
sheltered at home with fat budgets and smug
experts. We strive to win at trifling cost!
Thus, I revere these schemes, be it a bug
dispersed to hosts or just a retooled slug.

My leader mandates I don't mind the grand
outcome, but aim for swift and terror-laced.
Your best, he preaches, is when you can brand
the mind in stealth so judgment is displaced.
A shrapnel bleeds; a whispered plague is guerre;
blur certainties; make trusted foothold brittle.
Finished dust-white, this gadget soothes like prayer.
It’s javelin or spear? It’s plane or missile?
Yet, tell me, what harm lies in this epistle?

------------------------------------------------------

~~~First revision ~~~

The Finishing Touch
          (revised text in blue)


My craft is rich with history—it’s time-tested
trade, ideas—think Samson and his ass’s
jawbone, Gilgamesh, even Cain who bested
that fated one. My skills can’t rival Nasa’s
but we aim both for that transcendent blast
of rocket. Fess up now that everyone
like us, adepts, gets common stuff recast,
disguise at play. My cane can prop or stun.
I build; I seek that spot for our dry run.

Call me the Maker. Yes, my work is pain-
staking. It’s danger-filled, production rate
vexingly slow. Some label me insane
for such devotion to what I create—
branded as crude machinery by most
who claim to know, especially, your smug
experts. We strive to win at trifling cost!
Thus, I revere these schemes, be it a bug
dispersed to hosts or just a retooled slug.

My leader often would request, not for
prodigious, but the quick and fear-imbued.
Conceive ideas, that’s how we’ll nurse our lore,
he’d say; and how’d you get their pleasures screwed?
With football, you think cannonball. Make their
perception blur, make trusted foothold brittle.
Finished dust-white, this gadget soothes like prayer.
It’s javelin or spear? It’s plane or missile?
Yet, tell me, what harm lies in this epistle?

------------------------------------------------------

~~~Was previously ~~~

The Finishing Touch


In history, rich, my labor is time-tested
an industry—think Samson and his ass’s
jawbone, Gilgamesh, even Cain who bested
that fated one. My skills may never rival Nasa’s
but we aim both for that transcendent blast
of rocket. Chatter it now, everyone
like us, adepts, has common stuff recast,
disguise at play. My cane, though real, can stun.
I build; I seek that spot for our dry run.

Call me the Maker. Yes, my work is pain-
staking. It’s danger-filled, production rate
vexingly slow. You might not deem me sane
with such devotion to what I create—
labeled as crude machinery by most
who claim to know, especially, your smug
experts. We strive to win at piddling cost!
Thus, I revere this craft, be it a bug
dispersed to hosts or just a retooled slug.

My leader often would request, not for
prodigious, but the quick and fear-imbued.
Conceive ideas, that’s how we’ll nurse our lore,
he’d say; and how’d you get their pleasures screwed?
With football, you think cannonball. Make their
perception blur, make trusted foothold brittle.
Finished dust-white, this gadget soothes like prayer.
It’s javelin or spear? It’s plane or missile?
Yet, tell me, what harm lies in this epistle?