I aspire to it.
Think of the martyred saints secure in Heaven with their reward!
If it had been me,
I would have pulled the arrows out and made bones of them;
I'd have stood up out of the fire pit and made somebody pay.
I picture myself sanguine,
mild as milk,
but sometimes I get tired.
The day goes on and on as if it were The Train Of Infinity
hogging the crossing on some devil-hot day,
and at times such as those, it may become necessary
for me to pat you on your head,
replacing the bloody divot I have taken out of it.
Look at my hands!
Soft and harmless, now, as unbaked dough.
I only ever have the best of intentions,
and that has served me well in my job with the Highway Department.
Do you think you could trust me again
in some bright future where mobs are made lazy
by a surfeit of love and patient understanding?
Or will you will yourself to die just to get the ear of God
and talk shit about me?
is my watchword and my natural way.
That's what I'll be explaining, hoping for acquittal,
pro se, having to do everything myself--
getting the pencils and pens,
getting my own glass of water,
getting the maximum,
getting the legal pads, the table itself, the chair.