Nasty Conjugation

After the last neutron bomb kissed Montreal
To sleep, I arrived on spiked treads to salt
The fields of resistance with peace and
Forgiveness and plasma missiles.

My original designation was USX Solidarity,
An unmanned Harmony-Class tactical android
Designed to shatter the will of the Rebellion with
Ruthless and heartbreaking firepower.

The few pockets of resistance lasted seconds
Before my laser arrays reduced them to
Greasy vapor, wisps sent dancing in
The final shuddering gasps of the Last War.

Peacetime ushered in an era of diplomacy,
Weary nations limping across fields scorched
Bare to shake hands and vow to behave -
For the future, for as long as they had to.

The New Powers left me here as goodwill
Ambassador to the Canadian Wastes;
Steaming crevasses dot the countryside where
Children and marmosets once danced and sang.

To ensure the safety of the few surviving natives,
My wartime protocol has been replaced with the
Human brain of a famous peacekeeper,
A great man from a forgotten age long past.

I am U.S. President Jimmy Carter, at least,
I am his brain housed in a fifty-foot assault robot.
I am the nightmare of convenient diplomacy, and
I am so lonely here.

Addressed to my esteemed
Colleague in Papua, New Guinea,
The ambassador from America,
With apologies for the lateness
Of my reply.
(To be delivered with
haste and urgent discretion).

Nuclear winter in London –
Dreadfully dull.
Gregor has outfitted the motorcycle
With snow chains,
Shrapnel guards, and
An upholstered sidecar
In anticipation of your arrival.

A fortnight hence I shall cross
The war-torn countryside.
Huddled under a broken sky,
I will pay no heed to the
Outrageous mutant gangs,
Knowing a kiss from your generous
Rosebud lips awaits.

You will know my calling card
By the gold filigree hedgehog rampant
Across a field azure,
And the insignia which reads:
Abbs Noli irritare ericius.
I shall wear the fine top hat you sent,
As per the agreement.

I met Burt Reynolds today
after what seemed like a shallow eternity of waiting.
When he touched me it was electric,
like all of his immense energy concentrated
into his fingertips and discharged on the surface of my skin.
I wanted to sing, but he wanted to dance, so
I held his moustache while he twirled around the room.
My song seemed to echo forever:
O glorious, glorious.

Everything precious and secret is speaking
in sidewalks, in motion, syncopated
language lacking context or meaning,
and he is a verb.

His powers of Feng Shui
are the stuff of legend.
It was he who first spoke up
about that upholstery
in my heart; so tacky
and hideous in green shag.

And oh, the wonders he worked
in my duodenum:
some throw pillows in the corner,
an overstuffed chair, and
on the coffee table a
tasteful floral arrangement.

He lives in my pancreas,
my interior decorator.
The tiny, baby blue scarf
around his neck compliments
his grey penny loafers,
brightens his pinprick blue eyes.