Diablo!

By Frank De Canio

he yelled at me in the fast-moving car.
And though not physically accosted by
the sniper, vocally he’d petrify
me with his brash invective. It would jar
my senses, just as if it left a scar
inside of me so raw I’d soon as die.
Perhaps his anonymity was why
it rattled me who fostered the bizarre
conceit he was a plant. How mobilize
defensively and let the tension out for what was after all a sanitized
offensive by a surreptitious lout?
Had he done something, I could galvanize
against the tacit threat and move to rout

the miscreant. Besides, he screeched in front
of my apartment, on the quiet street
where I reside. I felt it was a stunt
to show me I should beat a fast retreat,
in lieu of any quest to stand my ground
amid adrift, inflammatory words
res publica had helped to spread around.
Such excrement is strictly for the birds.
For there are scarcely seeds in crap like that
to feed my democratic appetite
for civil rights without a caveat -
whatever scavengers are in mid-flight.
I trust the country that I’m living in,
however its electorate might grin

approvingly. “Diablo,” I could hear
him yell again, confused as what to do.
Intimidated, I could see him veer
his car around the corner, anxious to
engage my spleen. Instead I let him hit
me with bewilderment, then speed away
with cunning, having managed to acquit
himself of any input in the fray.
My body smoldered like a battlefield,
with him and me ombatants in my breast.
There, neither of us seemed disposed to yield
positions that the other one possessed.
And so, the conflict waged alarmingly.
For I was target of my armory.

Hence, battle weary, I could hear grenades
exploding within distance of my head.
As I approached the city’s barricades,
I crawled to safety, wishing I were dead.
And so, I’d done the dirty work for him,
while managing to hide my injuries,
except the self-inflicted loss of vim
and other corporal contingencies.
Forget the sense of being stalked like prey
in social spheres where guns are frowned upon.
I look upon my future with dismay
while, flaunting cockiness, he carries on.
I feel like I’d been booted in the ass,
and only wish his destiny’s as crass.

Born & bred in New Jersey, Frank worked in New York City for many years. He loves music from Bach to Amy Winehouse. Shakespeare is his consolation, writing his hobby. As poets, he likes Dylan Thomas, Allen Ginsberg, and Sylvia Plath. He also attends a Café Philo every other week in Lower Manhattan.