There is a name for never having to stop,
freeing semi to be full auto fire. As sardonic as ancient
warriors counting the defeated by their severed hands,
piling the bluffs of the Lower dust of say, Memphis-
the victorious overseer’s mind already off the synecdoche
of lofted palms, linked fingers scorpion tails
to thoughts of upgrades: flint arrowheads to brass, a faster chariot.
The day after Vegas, they called it madness, a lone trigger-
man the evil, & bought more guns. Mammon feasted
Moloch. What happens to the names when we count the bodies?
Does the Bataclan become the Reina become the Strip’s Harvest
become what will become of the country we can’t see beneath
the shroud of policy, prayer’s smoking offerings
a god cannot want & the dead have no use for.