Reagan's Chest

da vinci twists the valves to move the gasses round in reagan's chest.

the engine sweats the skin contraption, weights and measures, in perfect folds,
pullies and levers, two fat bros
balance on the wings of biplanes in the big, torch-lit secret room so it can fly straight,
rope swings and trapeze,
high wire dress maker's shop window frames the passing, diving, screeching
parade blow-up mustache man float
bursting out of his nineteenth century bathing suit.
the uninspired, deaf and lived-in line the streets,
hold up flash cards, run and sit with tambourines,
they wind junk, gloves, shoes and collapsible kick ready ribs and rest right in the square.
when the long and psychotic wire geese in cage cars
have lopped the heads off all of your olympians
and clean kids get sick and die and still you refuse to dig,
look into the egg toward the center of the big bug net phys-ed waltz
and loose your arrows at the dewy bull's eye
or draw your sword to drag a gash across the middle of a relay
runner, but no luck, no line of finish,
gnaw the loin off half a gym class plastic gold medal winner.

the utmost in protection of your children
bullets do no good, just look at the results.
one hundred gold rings, a disguise, a four foot trench,
a fishing trip, and a detention cannot protect them.
children could fall into a bucket and drown,
but forcefield's like a uv bonnet.
no more skyshine, no more leg irons,
your precious ones are safe inside
tool and gunbox in brand new colors,
forcefield fun for rotten kids
who'll never have to spill their guts,
there's no need for mechanized death.
foster parents on cassette tape, safety first is all year round.