it is with a morose gratitude 
that I am to dispense justice 
like a drug
at the hurlish demands 
of screeching bicuspids 
unaware of the lurch :
the shuffle of their own cloven hooves 
at the trough of the damned 

"to death," 
you declare
eager to eat the softened bones 
of your own impunity 
"To life"
a toast raised as a scythe falls 
and another trauma is passed
like blood thru the gates 
sliding on their davit points
shifting, labyrinthian
to guise the same exit 
taken by all 

yes, to the death 
that conscience be cleansed 
doused with lampshades 
quenched in the oils of backroom brows
percolating at the question 
"Of whence cometh evil?" 
yes, to death 
rung on high, heads piked
like banners 
to ease the tapestry of decidedly lesser sins 
or at least 
of quieter ones. 
yes, to death 
whose pale horse is stabled so readily and easily 
with great expense 
in the demolished foundations 
of where people once loved, and lived
their echos hung in portraits of police reports
slain in the tumble : the short fall off the wagon 

yes,
absolutely
kill em all.