He looks like hell. And with the first hint of daybreak's
    tobacco stain beyond the trees, haze-obscured

As if by floods of dust picked up in rotor-wash at Kirkuk,
    at San Sebastián, at Dealey Plaza, he surveys the devastation

Of his face in a small mirror and begins a litany
    against the unreal: That I have suffered the punch card,

The modem, Ma Bell, have suffered TV News, fly-overs,
    and at the hands and boots of the U.S. Marshal, on the table

Pipe, powder, a handful of matches from which he proceeds
    to snip, one by one, the heads with a pair of wire cutters,

Text message and cell phones' chirp and rattle, iPod, ATMs' questions
    and the bright tones of their synthesized speech no matter the hour,

The mood, and how much I might want to be left, simply, alone
    with the rain-swollen particle board which litters the curbside,

Carefully, it must be done with great care, he seals
    the pipe, sun's light incendiary now through the window,

Purposelessness, Irish Pubs in airports at Atlanta, Dubai, Detroit,
    that I've suffered cheap veneer and the Nothing everyone else has refused,

The trigger's beautiful and simple: rubber band's
    tension, fence nail, then the match heads' quick sulfur and

Saint Ludd, Holy Martyrs of the Haymarket, Saint Emiliano Zapata,
    bless the bird and the rain and what will be the ruins

Of cities, bless the market crashed and walking in peace,
    bless legions of honeybees even as they fall from the sky,

And so let the postmark secure the path of its own undoing,
    let the money, the memo, let each hard drive wired in sequence

Burn; let us forget everything. Trompe l'oeil? Blow it up.
    Bless what we knew before we knew so much, before that freedom,

And bless, before everything, fire.