The Hit List

My dream is to kill Ernest Hemingway…

Begin with drink

These things always do

Bellies gorged

Stumbling through Spanish streets

A causal shove

One shrill cry

Callused hands against pavement

Car tires screeching

Too late to stop

The satisfying crunch

Not the whole body

Just the hands

Then he dies

My dream is to burn Shakespeare at the stake…

A glorious funeral pyre

Center stage of The Rose

Blind folded

Writhing in agony

Flames licking his shanks

Shouting heretic

A tragic life

A comedic end 

His last words, “Et Tu Brute?”

Unoriginal

Yet so proud

The blindfold removed

He sees nothing

Only empty seats

My dream is to drown Neruda in that sea he loves so much…

Making love to all the women he ever touched

Caressing the curves of flower pots

Building shoes  

Licking the sides of ships

Handling scraps of paper

As if they belonged to me

Back and fourth he sways

Body choked by seaweed

And a dispassionate life

Nothing left

Only the sound surf

No pens left

All typewriters broken

Cutting him open

No blood flows

My dream is to slay the great minds of this and every generation…

No more words

Or songs

Or deeds

Or conscience

Or love

Or pain

Or reflection

Torn from the walls

Sleep would finally come

A brief respite free of shadows

Gravity made irrelevant

Massive as absence

Tranquil and unfeeling

Healing self made wounds

As strong as plastic

Then I win