The Pancake Cascade of Commerce fell
Upon my head
Like rain from a dystopian future
Above the rain, the bullhorn yelled
A call to avenge the dead
I heard it clear as bombs on the harbor
And the cries of ‘41
The bullhorn echoed loudly
“Tell it to the Marines!”
So I signed some papers and asked to be pointed
In the direction of the heathens
I marched ahead to repair my soul and
Mend the damage wrought
By all the falling pieces—the whole
Of a lost ideal sought.
Clouds of dust became
A rallying cry for wounded masses
Demanding justice, they sent me
To repair the commerce tower
To deliver the jumpers back
To corner offices and views of the city
But all I have is a gun.
—June, 2011