Look out, now—there is trouble south of you.
The sun, still bloody hours after dawn,
has found a shape on Seventh Avenue,
the ragged shape of Malachi McCann,
alive. He scarcely can remember how.
Mercy—the blast, the fight, and when his torrid
Valhalla fell into the Hudson River,
he went down, too, but swarm ashore and now,
horrific with his flame-scarred cheeks and forehead,
he is a Fury burning to deliver
creation from the plague of humankind,
from parasitic twits, from upright vermin.
Oh yes, he has to wipe us out, or else he
will die for nothing.
will die for nothing. Past 14th, in Chelsea,
pain drives him even further from his mind.
Brünnhilde is intoning Wagner’s German
ardently, and he starts to hum the part
that goes “helles Feuer das Herz mir erfaßt”
(“The fire of Hell has now possessed my heart”).
A bit more violence, that is for the best,
and human folly will be in the past;
a bit more violence, and the world will rest.
Last edited by Aaron Poochigian; 11-11-2019 at 09:55 AM.