Saturday, February 23, 2013

4140. LAUNDERED

LAUNDERED
You have, I may now safely aver,
laundered my time and laundered my money;
there is no path along your escarpment and I
am tired of running. This three-room shack,
worthy of Ted Kacinsky himself, has kept
me well. I ate honey and corn, I stole what
else I could steal  -  no one has anything on me.
-
My tools were the adze and the axe.
My riflework was the sharpshooter's art,
and high along this ridge no one, apparently, ever had
heard the shots -  no, they were not constant, just
rather now and then. A few trespassers, a'foul of me
over time and years, are now dead. Their bodies are
buried in the rocks. It's no matter, it's all done.
-
Let's get real, let's keep it together. I don't wish
to live like this, and you don't want me here.
Take me in then, if you dare, but I swear
I will kill you first if I can. Beware.

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