Click Click Delete

With shrapnel as our prophets

and bombs in our palm lines

we can now predict the collisions in the skies

of birds on windows.

We men have long been masters of our tepid fate

and yet, somehow,

we have fallen so far from morality

that we must search its meaning

in our online dictionaries.

We have burned all the bridges of

idealism without ever crossing them

into the trash folder,

click click delete.

Always grappling with the correct

and the politically so

we are the chairs of our hate groups

forged with our sweat, our blood and tears

torching our confidences

like gasoline inflames our desire

for world peace

(give it to us and

we won't flood your markets

with second-grade maple syrup).

We are at fault

like children are at fault,

with hands over our eyes,

playing hide-and-seek with our conscience

and peeking.

Ready or not, here we come.

Better hide your mothers and your guns

and God forbid there be any signs...

green-and-orange NDP will get you shot

didn't you know?

Freedom of expression is only allowed

at one's discretion, misconception

will not be tolerated.

Thank God for the buddy system –

they've got your back –

they'll name their children after you and then

condemn you over Facebook chat

disliking your status like a slap to the face

uploading pictures that will get you fired.

And they'll pose questions

philosophical like,

asking: what do you see when you look to the skies?

I see collisions of fireworks and bombs

lighting the night like Christmas trees

and those blinded birds sliding

off apartment windows

like paper cranes and Hanukkah

into the trash folder

click click delete.

Slam poem.