Sometimes Robinson, tainting his fingers
or cauterizing eyeballs with what
passes for Imperial Americana news,
wishes he had taken up
the bazooka, not the guitar.
Another presidential-invasion press conference?
Kaboom! A Humvee-equipped American Idol
winner embellishing a Wal-Mart’s So-Californicated
ribbon-cutting? Kazow! If Robinson can
sling a nine-pound Les Paul
how hard can it be
to shoulder RPG or Stinger
and fire the opening salvoes
in a campaign to exterminate
the idiots who make news,
make policy, make America safely
moronic racist evangelist-ridden profit-driveling warmongers?
Maybe more guitarists will join
once Robinson’s surface-to-air fireballs
Air Force One, maybe they’ll
trade Stratocasters for homegrown jihad,
replete with black-market Israeli weaponry,
inspiring their stadium-rock fans
to apply their sentimental Zippos
to Molotovs tossed at SUVs
on freeways from Corpus Christi
to Anaheim. “Let’s roll!” Robinson
mutters at his television, connected
via Big Brother’s omnipotent cable
to every oversized TV tuned
into American Idol’s finals tonight.
Maybe the National Security Agency’s
paranoia-splendored plan to tap
each and every citizen’s boobtube
is operative ahead of schedule
and its bugging insufficiently debugged
to permit Robsinson’s reverse broadcast!
If Robinson yells “Let’s roll!”
loud enough, he’ll be heard
over Paula Abdul and whatever
tearjerking teen chanteuse is irritating
Simon Cowell’s facial hemorrhoids! Truly,
what’s the worst that can
come of an obscure middle-aged
guitarist berating the shining face
of his nation’s real god?
A knock on the door.
Not NSA or FBI, just
Officer Rouse, Wrightsville Beach Police.
“Mister Robinson? The neighbors called.
They’re afraid you were experiencing
a seizure, or being robbed.
Hey, is that American Idol?
Do you mind?” Chastened Robinson
offers Officer Rouse a beer,
a seat before the glowing throne.