All Natural Assassin School

all-natural assassins
take no aspirin

the message sharp-ied above the urinal

says.
also, the party line insists
the test is not a measure of intelligence
so much as a game
of
light your oblongata

or get off the pot, 

which was Ante Annihilation’s
catch phrase, aka Jules Rodriguez,
who retired on a roller derby
pension.(ah the snakes cursed
that poor old gal. snakes for intestines
they said) she was an instructor
until they caught her canoodling
with ethically challenged,
cross town rivals
‘the preservative assassins’

How on earth
this tight lipped syndicate
operates incognito...

but it is they who passed
me through the physical prowess
portion of the pre-interview process
due to mastery of board breaking &
lasso making.

on to the classroom arena via
escorts, broad-shouldered and bow-tied.
unabashed,
size-me-up-sideways
types, allinarow,
prick up
when the deep down body
voice presenting from a mini transistor
situated on a metal lectern
cracks
to life: Hey! Sit up straight
ya buncha Barney Fifes!

the valedictorian raises her hand, 

registers concern. wait. 

I won't take aggression 

through this medium. her desk folds
inward upon itself, popping, compact-

ing reducing, reducing
until she's gone.

when silence 

is again regained 

the voice assures us, 

you may begin.

When you find out what these kids are jumping into, your jaw will drop!

The narrator
takes a break from his wares
dips
sticks and twine into the solution,
and presents as if he were christening

an orchestral movement.
opens this contraption to the breeze
and a bubble the size
of a unicorn pony bounds away into the distant horizon.
it’s difficult 

for him to create this enchantment children
seek so fervently to destroy

a keepsake wallet-sized print-out
of his second infarction’s EKG
reminds him of mortality and a frame story
for an epistolary
about that one, small, family
of strangers we finally
let in, a mother and her child

the child developed the strength
of a middle aged tree,
but the ratio of candy to bruises
never changed
in his favor.
The narrator sounded 

like this: I’ll take you away
from here right now,
but you’ll have to forget.
And you can’t remember
where we’re going. 
Deal?

The townspeople whispered
abortion when the child grew
into what the e-newsletter
described as “a reminder of misallocated generosity”
under the headline,
“Details Reader’s Digest Won’t Print”

the candy was the story
because if the candy wasn’t the story,
then all those bruises
were for nothing.

and the story on her end?
souvenir t shirt scraps
lay on her lap
unquilted
like a flattened cat.
she can sit the kitchen
of an evening,
watch gas
flares at the refinery
light the sky. useless
to them but like
what's coming up next on the HDTV
her attention remained rapt

he displays mosaics for sale

outside the town wall.
bottle cap plastic
spoon pieces, sharp
and sun bleached, broken,
glaucomic,
Happy Meal shards
fixed to plywood in regimented
blocks of color

vice principals stop on their way back in--
administrative assistants, team-members,
sales associates, band boosters--
to visit his makeshift booth.
apologizing in their way by purchasing
one of the 5 dollar works
he kept in plentiful stock.

camouflaged of desperation
but crackling with urgency,
citing rights,
they each demanded to know,
sotto voce,
do your fantastic stories work?

Yes, the narrator sighs.
yes. but
grab a lollipop on your way in.