The long-haired, chubby, bare-assed
Rubber dolls
Of the sixties
Always got your image
Wrong, though they got
Your height right.
You are small – so small
You need sit on
Two telephone books
To see your screen
And reach the keys.
You never smile,
No matter how you feel.
When you are exultant,
You sneer.
Your victories
Are small,
Like you.
You fire off
A sharp dig
And picture your enemy
Fuming.
You dismiss your distant
Victims like some little general
Sticking pins in maps
Of spots where shells
Will hit. No one
Can see you
Or reach you,
No one can win
Over someone
The truth does not touch.
You don’t care
If your enemy is right,
Or if his words
Would make more sense than yours
If anybody else would listen.
You don’t live in the same world
As the rest of us. You tell wild lies
About the lives
And personalities
Of people
You have never even met,
So they’ll be forced
To correct you with facts
You can then twist against them.
Any information
Is a weapon, even
That which proves you wrong –
It tells you what’s important
To your enemy, what
Else to lie about.
You are a self-appointed
Miniature god
Whose rage
Creates his universe.
You’ll make life hell
For those who break
Your least commandment.
You will rule
This message board!
Looking down
From your “high seat,”
Dizzy with what you think
Is power, not admitting
Even to yourself
That you are lonely
“at the top,” you feel
Your crown
Cut off your circulation,
And mistake it for
A buzz.
Dying alone
Is a small price to pay.
-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey
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