The malaise of the depression
swings from a long black coat.
Wind flapped duster tails,
and his hat pulled down low.
Sailing hands fly suddenly
in deadly circles, hurling graves
as machine guns blaze.
Quells the ravenous republic’s hunger
for a hero, swooping down, the majestic hawk
from the clouds with the succulent
worms and sad stories of battles,
corpses, and conspiracy to the
open trembling beaks.
Slaughtering the whole hog,
and laughing from the mud pen.
Manic and frenzied mad hatters.
Hoover’s minions, peering through
the eyes of a random helpless god
In a fine tailored black suit.
Dry and dusty throats mute, stumbling
through the American dream and watch
as the teller dies and dreams fade.
His voice scratchy like 32 ounce wind proof wool
“I’m not here for your money, just the bank’s,
put your wallet away.”
Gravel weary, grizzled and bleary,
the eyes of an era; the eyes of opportunity.
Roll credits and flickering frame in a dark theater
on an award winning newsreel.
Death came all the same.
Closing the chapter, the book
and the eyes of John H Dillinger.
Brava!!!!!I love the flow and strength of this.