Post-Mortem

"Attention!" The gunmen raised their Belgian rifles,
such statements reflected the deeply embedded views.

His taunting was finding their dearest taboos,
the blue intense, screamingly Picasso, “The Ascetic.”

How the dictator liked sitting in his palace, his eyes
gouged out and his testicles stuffed in his mouth.

The C.I.A. tried to assess the gleaming suit,
the only outfit that seemed truly his own.

“We’ll show you you’re a woman,”
concerned as they were about his orientation,

and eager to attempt a cure, an illuminating assay,
a corrective procedure known as “rape.”

A softer man in jeans and a white T-shirt continued
playing the sweet vamp on his electric keyboard.