Missed my calling
by a few thousand years
to be a sword for hire.
I searched on Craigslist for mercenary
and received three hundred hits
seeking business executives.
Picked up a copy of
Soldier of Fortune from a magazine rack
at the corner store.
Although it featured
the loveliest tactical gear
pornography,
it contained as much useful information
as Miss America's head
if she were wearing a
red Rambo bandanna.
Some texts claim that there's a killer
in every last one of us animals
while the interviewees make sweeping poetic statements
about wolves and sheep and villages
colored by the water eyed awe of
the interviewers.
I woke up for ten minutes in Intro to Philosophy
before I concluded
by his own estimations
I would have scalped Nietzsche
and ate his tongue
and happily missed his point.
Psychologically unfit
for uniformed duty
and the retail sales floor.
I suppose,
in our modern day
of prisons and civilization
and rules that say:
"you can't stand here after 7 PM,
because those who
cringe at the edge of darkness
are running things,"
another day standing in line at the bodega,
eyes wandering the magazine rack
for fake tits and muscle cars,
is as close as I'll get
to reaping the benefit
of whats left
of my daily eroded
toothy will
to take the world in my hands
and drown it.
