Cheney
by Dick Cheney

I, too, dislike me; there are interrogations that are necessary beyond
                   all such riddles.
       Being arhythmic, however, with a separated twin’s bond with Death,
                   embedded inside of
       myself after all, is a touch of the poet.
                   Ears that can wiggle-waggle, eyes
                   that can wink, hair that can frizz
                         in rain, they are all necessary not because a

low-rated PBS special can “expose” noble lies but because
                   life is just
       that way. When op-eds get so extreme as to leave you
                   discombobulated,
       the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
                   do not admire what
                   we cannot control: the bat
                         to break a kneecap or swing at and miss

a spitball, AIPAC being pushy, a dog walker taking a dump, a tireless
                   blogger on
       SSI, the enemy combatant twitching his skin like a call girl
                   who lays it on thick, the bass-
       playing limo driver, the big fat drummer boy—
                   nor is it invalid
                         to discriminate against “business documents and

school-books”; all these leaky vessels can take fire. Liberals make
                   no distinction
       however: when dragged into public debate by weak sisters, the
                   result is not sound policy,
       not till the swinging richards among us can be
                   “neo-con men of
                   the imagination”—above
                         explanation and conviviality and can present

for inspection, real WMDs in imaginary bunkers,
                   shall we avoid
       defeat. In this life, if you demand on the one hand,
       the raw intel of wartime with
                   all its curveballs and
                   that which is on the other hand
                         fed to the press, you have nothing to fear from Dick Cheney.

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