This is a work of parody. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Dear IRS, I regret to inform you lyricism has no place
in the beef between us. I sat down
and wrote this instead of setting a building
on fire. Any building. Pick one. Pick another.
Pick-me energy betrays me every time I get passed
from another interview. I don’t want what I need,
and that’s the problem with me. I imagine
governing bodies have hands like I do. Oh what
beautiful federal hands reach inside me
to splint an unhurt organ then convince
me I’m on the mend.  Don’t lie to me. I learned
all about the myth of healing, and I’ve come to
shatter your propaganda with my own. I’m coming around
to the idea of self-immolating and giving the empire
a big smooch. I’m coming around to the idea
of gridlocking daggers and pushing retirement
through the weave. I abhor capital punishment,
but capital must be punished. This is my America now,
and I’m putting it in the ground then making an altar.
I’m praying death sticks around long enough
to make a disciple of me. I’m like one bad migraine
away from whipping up a manifesto and committing myself
to ecoterrorism. Wittgenstein expressed that silence
carries the limit of language, but he forgot the tongue
of fire. Ok, so like you’re telling me, we all have an
incommunicable truth but poetry smuggles some
of that truth into language? You sunovabitch, I’m in!
You and me, Mr. W, let’s stake this poetry thing out—grow exaggerated
moustaches and drink coffee while waiting at truth’s moonlit
doorway. On the other side of the door, poetry with
a fake moustache and decaf coffee stakes us out.
We’re all waiting behind either side of truth’s moonlit
doorway. Nobody moves, and I imagine a tumbleweed
scatters before the credits roll. Silence. Then the post-credits
scene teasing the sequel rolls. Truth’s moonlit doorway
cracks open revealing Language in a beautiful moustache
staking us all out. Language is the cop.