James Brady Is Dead

April is National Poetry Month – #NaPoMo #30for30

James Brady is dead,
though for the last thirty-three
years of his life he lived
in seesawing disagreement
with his body which somedays
responded well to access
and other days refused
to admit the failure of the bullet.

James Brady is dead,
though for sixty-nine days
he joked with the press
in a manner seemingly laughable
by today’s adversarial media
melee, where one wrong
word spins instantaneously
crisscrossing the equator.

James Brady is dead,
though for three centimeters
he could have had long less,
and Reagan might have been
Kennedy, and Bush might
have spent the eighties railing
against Madonna’s gyrations
tilting wildly right and left.

James Brady is dead,
though in less than a second
he became a cyborg of mind
and metal, a man who was lead
to believe, by the delusion of want,
in the terror of maddened men
who feel slighted by the voices
to whom they are dutifully wed.

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