I Am My Own Elephant Gun,

the sun that the blew the stars out
the grin that pulled its teeth out
and left them wandering around
the airport, tied to a parking meter,
bleeding in a elevator, thrown
from a car on the Triborough bridge,
thump under the tire, tired of washing
my mouth out and the candles guttering
out, of awake so early after up so late,
of up so late and dogless with tall boys,
dogged by silent phones, by one ringing
phone in which of the unlit windows,
by all the slits in the meat to be filled
with slivered garlic, by the garlic to be
slivered and (mon dieu) a brand new
knife, my bloodbath runeth over,
puncheth three holes at once through
an inch of gauzy onion skin, I am
the wad of pink plastique that took
the old stone bridge down, shaking
my head, playing dead, the dead
who played dead ‘til was dead.