Upon the televised walls
sprays of
war flavored blood.

On the window,
a mist of brain drawn forth
by someone’s convictions.

There’s no regard.
no one reaching
for gentleness.

It is too late for such things.
No matter what we say, no security 
is violent enough for us.

Beyond our screens
is a ravening planet. Anyone 
I see in there is part of it.

Let this be our last call,
oh friends, oh companions.
Let us admit we long

for a fire fueled
by what we see as clean hate.
Yes, you too.

Last call. Hurry up,
please — it’s time again.
It’s time.

Pour a glass then toss it
against the screen. Let it 
splash all over

the walls, the windows.
Aren’t you sick of yourself,
friends? Companions?

You can see howI am sick of myself.
I want all of me gone, all of everything —
right, left, wrong, right.

I long to have my last scene
be abrupt. To have the last days
end suddenly. To have Death snicker

and say, you liberal, you conservative,
you allegedly gentle person who allows
such a flood of killing by refusing to kill —

you are as much Death as I am
as I accuse and refuse and confuse
with diffidence sprayed with blood

and the screen goes red,
then black.
We are the worst.

Yes, you too.