Big Britches

Anyone likes a good genocide, from Warsaw to Manila, everywhere
the partisans of resistance have dissected the abandoned technology.
And anyone likes a big man stand-in for national identity, a murderer, yes,
but strong — as we might be, respected, draped in exaggerated pastimes.
Anyone likes vigilante uniforms of some domestic variety —
the machinist’s shirt dyed black, the trucker cap dyed red.
Everywhere we’ve found undetonated ordnances of population hemorrhage,
MREs for the traditional palette, abandoned conveyances for repurposing.
Anyone likes a cabalistic lexicon, begun in satire, the giggle of the prick
instigated by the caricature, the epithet, the hilarity of the firing squad. Ha.
You’re not alone, compatriots. I, too, am trying on these big man britches.
They’ve just been lying around. There’s one leg in, one before the other, one left to go —

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