Our Constant Peace Process

Johnny Manta Ray dealt with death
same as any business anywhere:
slip Tone some eels, pat him on the back,
watch Donatello’s Lincoln blown to hell.
Georgia sighed, “Evil sure gets pretty,”
her dress sequined in happy thoughts,
and it hung absolutely right. After all,
what’s not wonderful about sparks
in the night, homemade stars, the nearer
and the now? “I don’t want trouble any more,
and when you have a problem with something,
cut off the head. That’s what Jesus said.”
“No, boss, I don’t think Jesus said that.”
“Somewhere in the Bible. I’m no reader,
but this is as right now as 10,000 years ago.”
Georgia explained to Tone how she was young,
and needed money, not so smart, weak,
how it ain’t wrong if, “I hadda, hadda, hadda...”
“Porn ain’t so bad,” said Tone, “But Johnny feels
the news is up to him. Donatello’s mistake
is employee-related. He shoulda just kept quiet.”
“Let’s talk about something else. Murder weighs
a ton. Georgia, tell Tone about my ‘Volare’
the night I crooned out all those clouds.”