Action Film Hero

Bullets swarm angry, inches
above my head.
Humidity is the air between ass cheeks.
Only green light filters through
the dalbergia mammosa.
In the distance, jinging
voices between rifle pats.
Bass-singing rats.
Fallen like the millions of Pacific
northwestern pines to the volcano
blast, they crumble at my stare,
my expendable eyes, my M-60.
Most think me incapable
of normal talk. At the Varsity,
whatyahave? My Cheeseburger
Yawp! At the Nissan dealership,
they jingle, drive this baby
home with 2.9 % financing.
Evil loan! On Santa’s lap: camo
boxer shorts! Interior monologues hump
by, a platoon of coherence.
I dismiss public speculation
over my seeming drought of intellect.
About many things do I know:
antivenin for tropical scorpion
venom, third world country
clay compositions, MRE prep
with limited Tabasco, RPG trajectories
and TNT. NATO. Acronyms.
Initialisms. Limitations: one-handed
brassiere unsnapping, garlic-broiled
escargot, soft cheese and Beaujolais paring.
But I tuck love in my heart, a little
bullet. Pull back my hammer and I’m
a Creedence song. I boast
scars from every conflict
emotional, the dark-haired beauties
I’ve rolled over
in numerous a thatched hut.
I love, for love hinders death.
Love is life. All that I understand,
I understand only because I love.
All is, all exists only because I love.
All is bound up in love alone.
Love is God, and dying
means for me a particle
of love. My moustache holds
the key to God’s Porsche. Even my biceps’
veins have their own tiny veins.
I roll an unlimited monosyllabic vocabulary,
and my quiver’s full.
Nothing but love can stop me.