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  The Pentagon

By Douglas Rosenquist

The Pentagon,
that five-sided bastion of our collective fears,
at its wits’ end to once-and-for-all
annihilate all its enemies,
decides to shoot the fiscal moon
with a record-shattering budget of
skatey-eight bazillion trillion dollars
for the creation of the Ultimate Weapon.

The Pentagon;
fronted by four menacing apocalyptic horses,
their hooves thundering and dusting the dirt;
their nostrils flaring, ears pinned back, eyes glazed and crazed;
puts out project bids to the best weapons geniuses
money and might can seduce, with the one criterion:
The Ultimate Weapon must neutralize
all enemies of the state, sparing none.

The Pentagon,
the day the delivery truck alas arrives,
festoons itself with flags and
balloons of red and white and blue.
Military bands blare brassy marches;
five-star generals stand erect,
gold-braid epaulets protecting their broad shoulders,
shining seas of medals their puffy barrel chests.

The Pentagon;
with pinstriped politicos in power suits
shaking hands and glade-smiling one another,
their diamond-studded teeth glistening in the noonday sun.
Red-robed bishops with cone-head hats
and brightly-polished staffs sign the cross
as they mutter among themselves,
“What a great day for God’s chosen.”

The Pentagon,
in its finest hour.
A thousand lofty flocking folks,
faces pregnant with anticipation,
raptor beaks all pointing,
beady eyes all staring
at the truck as it rolls to a stop
for a moment for all eternity.

The Pentagon
hawks gawk as the black canvas lifts,
and to their utter constipation consternation,
their blithering beaks aghast at the sight,
of banquet tables fit for a feast
beneath a 2,000 year-old banner
with three long-forgotten words:
Love Thine enemy.
 
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