Stunt Casting

Hollywood walkaways get flaming framing devices
when their destructions keep
and look so cool and insouciant as the debris rains down
like a plague of frogs.
But when I burn a bridge
nothing so cinematic rewards my termination.
Just silence.
No one calls, no one writes, no one sighs or cries
or takes my badge and gun and yells that I’m
“A loose cannon.”
I bite my tongue until it swells up like a cartoon fish
and then explodes
“bitch,” “cunt,” “chickenshit,” “slut,” “pow,” “bam,” “kaplooie.”
When I burn a bridge,
I use gasoline
and when I light the match
even the water ignites like starships in space battles
even though, you know, no oxygen.
At the end of the film, the door is always left open
for a sequel
or the epic trilogy
and, of course, a television adaptation with less attractive leads,
but when I burn a bridge
no one sits through the credits.
“Nothing to see here, move along,”
When the bridge has melted down to twisted legs of steel,
I’m left standing on an island, isolated from the mainland
unshaven, malnourished, a little crazier,
though, not sexy crazy, or ‘normal people are the real crazies,’ crazy
just, you know, crazy.
And when I have done the deed,
set the scene ablaze, burnt the bridge and filled my own eyes with smoke
there’s no question mark on ‘The End.’

Bridge 2