The Hitlers of Kennebunkport

Chills of a actress in her first nude scene, telling herself she liked it, comfortable

Scissoring a stray girl from nowhere with a Bhutanese passport and machete scars;

On the wall a portrait of Kaiser Wilhelm, one of Pope John Paul II, and Ivan Cooper,

But around the corner, in the shared space of flatmate Gerry, a floor-to-ceiling spread

Of Tito next to a votive candelabra illuminating Trujillo in exaggerated regalia, all-gold.

One day a doll-like silhouette of hair plugs plucked, a freezer corpse of Gaddafi's slit-eyes

And the rag-doll neck-break ocher of a splayed dictator dragged behind a .50-caliber Toyota

Truck not dissimilar from my own; but the memory of a people in a pewter frame on a mantle. 

And the looks of shame from my ancestor's watching from the trees in southern hemispheric

Smog, over the baobab trees singing with civets and beneficent of barbary apes and baboons

Or the painterly skeet of a Spanish fauvist, the ponytail of perpetuity and strength waning.

Since the visual is taking over the aural, so the neurologists say, the poets in sustenance,

Futurist presiding, a crab apple bower on being pelted by children, my innocent prison.

When the arrow flies, it holds time in it's wet feather, the arc and velocity engaging--

A cave song bellowing, what an asshole, what a hungry pig, that succulent American

Borrowing money he does not know how to spend, all the good grades, the burritos.

Ketchup all over Hitler, on his Kennebunkport trampoline, laughing-gas eyes, old.