All Who Walk with Long Knives

    “All who walk with long knives are not cooks.”
                                              Russian Proverb

As a modern torrero bravo,
I wield the remote's
long imperceptible blade
to slash into the screen,
from my LazyBoy
all the way to the Sombrero Galaxy,
while X-rays, lasers, and infra-reds
aim for isolation
or ratings
then cut it both ways.

Inside the box,
man or anti-man
--trying to spread jelly under peanut butter
but better at cueing at a billiard-room--
drops the knife on the floor
when a bell jingles and the door opens
with spasms.

The din of steel
swells in mockery
of the moans of a fallen angel,
swallowed whole
inside a vulture’s neck,
but everyone gets taxed on his own street,
even Michael Corleone.

Encouraged,
the minds that guide
horned-skulls and long knives
huddle
with haphazard cheering,
and for progress,
they may attempt
to insert electronic chips
into the rain
coming down in waving sheets
outside.

On the other hand,
I am famished, and
I commit a sacrilegious act;
I click the power button off
to enjoy the takeout pizza from Giorgio’s,
free from turbulence.