For Richard McGinn
I thought I knew what to do with my anger
and that was to stuff it.
Let him lie. He has a family to protect.
Who am I to judge?
But it keeps coming back, a little piece of shit that won't go down.
"My friend John Deutch."
"No evidence of high-level conspiracy."
Why can't he just keep his mouth shut?
Let's talk about Minimalism.
Then he can convince me of how smart he is
and how dumb I am
but not like this.
He is not an idiot. It just can't be.
But then he is lying.
Let it lie, I say again.
I know this is right.
They can kill him.
They can break his daughter's kneecaps.
They can destroy him in a thousand ways.
They wouldn't hesitate. They've got it planned.
All he's got to do is say the wrong thing, or the right thing, and he's gone.
Gone the way of millions. That's how high the stakes are.
That's the investment, they will say.
It would be insane, a sacrilege, in fact, to stop now.
Still, there it is.
That little piece of shit that won't go down.
"If only there was some evidence..."
I flush and flush. It stays.
What do I have to do, eat it?
Wait till it dissolves?
Even if it does, it will still have been there
even when we're not.
What a legacy.