My Private Theodores

Remember the Unabomber?

Ted Kaczynski with his wild hair
and unkempt eyes?
A lone hermit in a down
falling shack surrounded
by pencil stubs gnawed
and papers crumpled,
I imagine, rejected
bits of his manifesto.

It feels like my head is that lush
green mountain in Idaho or Utah or wherever
it was, it feels like my head
is filled with a whole goddam village
of Ted Kaczynskis, madly
scribbling their demands
of how things should be.

And then, when
nobody listens, or
nothing changes, or
doesn't change fast enough, or
they've just plain had it up to here no matter what,

KABOOM!

or sometimes just
a cranky fizzle
that cranks on and on driving everybody else
off that green mountain,
miles and miles away, to
California or Copenhagen, maybe, or
even to the blood red sands of Australia;
and all the dozens of my private Theodores
scribble madly on.

Afterward I wonder,
where is my brother,
who will know my raving,
who will turn me in?

Copyright (c) 2001, John Elder, All Rights Reserved