Thinking Aloud, In Metaphor (AKA: Poetry)

In the Window


Two-headed man, in the window
Smiling-frowning on my rambunction
As you stare down the barrels
Of my silver-handled shotgun,
You frighten me.
It is not the way your eyes move,
Blazing straining blaring blinking staring,
Struggling to track my rambunction
As you stand straight, stare straight,
In the window.
It is not the way your hands reach,
Gripping convulsively and fighting
Each other off,
Scoring themselves and scarring themselves
Training themselves for a day
When unity would be most important
And when,
At a crucial moment,
They would come up empty.
It is not the way your heads loll,
Rolling like moon-calves and rambling on
About nuclear physics and Pindar's odes
And the beauty of Nefertiti and Locke's
Psychology of the Self.
No.
It is none of these things.
It is, two-headed man, the way
You think you own me.
The way you feel that because
Of your lolling heads, your moon-calf eyes,
Your lascivious officious gendarme sighs,
Because your brains form a negative
Image of mine, because you have read
All of the ancients who also thought they knew
The perfect code of morals that man should follow,
You think you know all things.
Two-headed man, you are wrong.
And so as you stand in the window,
Staring down the barrel of my
Silver-handled shotgun,
I pull the triggers. I destroy you.
I close the blinds.
I have no regret.