Iconoclasts: Nietzsche into Sunset; Eastwood into Sunset

There he goes
consistently stoic and lean, unsinging
there he goes stricken and fluid and strung
so tight each line springs from his face and down
to the floor sings gently down his face to the floor.
Now he's protecting beauty like it's thighs
spread taut against the wall, now the wall
dissolves into thighs. He respects sidewalks
and copyright law, he leans like a chimney. Now he runs
for mayor of some town that has no need: Our man
in dungarees. Our spinning fool. Our man ill at ease
below gray suits. Now he'll press in his hat
a long daisy, green tip just brushes the edge of one ear.
Our man of every hour, waiting for applause--
There were flowers once but it wasn't real, it was
to prove a point and flowers? he thought, and still does.
Our man of cheerful despair leaves marks on every page,
they meant something once but it's lost. It's all
yellow light. The town succumbs or fails, there's increase
or loss, taxes get paid, what matters. It did not begin there,
nothing began, our man of scribbled disaster wiggles
through his window, bobs over the rise and is gone.

© 2009 Jenna McWilliams