DenneBarnold never means what you say he means

Benedict Arnold, the old Boy
with no last name
whose grandmother warned him
to Eat Everything You Kill,

suddenly solemnly thought
"should have waited before prying
the lid off that nickelodeon,"
the black and white icebox
that kept the illusion from spoiling.

Armed with a baseball bat
and a threequarter cap
he'd break the boggart open

he would,
prove that

the endlessly endlessly repeating endlessly
piece of thirty second dynamite,
Miss Berlin Beauty 1912 divided
into two twelve minute segments
with commercial earthquakes makes 30,

but that's all on film.

Democracy, the Film
of sweat that dripped off
the heads of

football-headed constitutionalists
lettered back by rejectionists
on behalf of the Guinness Book of World Records,

"Nay'nt the first to win a war
and jerk a Brit and die in between,
but we've never seen a more dedicated group
to try to prove otherwise."

Such remembrations bounced off
the condiment packets he stuffed
into his coin purse,

already full of nauseous nougats
and macaroni feathers and a bundled up 80
feet of celluloid frames,

some powdered lipsticked german chick
nobody thought about
since the War Ended All Wars

15 years prior.
We're all starving,

and ice cream prices
have been hiked
by the only truck driver
in the burrough. But Arnold's

no more alive than Phoebe,
he hangs only on a page,
having been buried alive

years before we knew about the War like this.