Cheney
by Dick Cheney
I, too, dislike me; there are interrogations that are necessary beyond
all such riddles.
Being arhythmic, however, with a separated twins 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 imaginationabove
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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