A bonsai tree rubs up against the skyline,
looses its throat into a roar.
People flee in terror,
but mostly take
pictures on their cellphones.
The night is punctuated
with sirens and flashing lights:
nothing too out of the ordinary.
From my rooftop fortress
I trace the patterns
of terror with my index finger
and I swear its a symbol
urging me to action.
I power up
and by that I mean smoke drugs
then hurdle the gaps
between buildings in a quickening blur
of unidirectional rage.
I'm not wearing elbow or knee pads
and a headbutt is out of the question
so I start a small lumber mill,
using my super-trustworthy face
as collateral.
Over the next three fiscal years
we grow large enough to take
care of our city-assailant,
but he had since moved on
to bigger and better things.
9.08.2009
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