The Magic Bullet’s Birthday Party Just Around Corner

And 399 dreams come true

50-candles burned, extended ammo-family gathered in celebration, the Magic Bullet made wish, took deep breath, flames outed, smoke disappeared, buckshot-applause, and the happy aging bullet spoke eternal:

Sprung from Italian carbine womb, November 22, 1963,
polished to gloss, faster than Zapruder’s camera,
not knowing from where I came, mother I hardly knew her,
gunpowder smell, born to perform assassins’ rite, like a prey-bird, I spoke no Russian, flew through warm Dallas air, knew not my purpose – for bullets, things happen too fast,
and what brought me to funereal standstill could have been either buffalo hide or Republic foundation.

Winchester Cathedral Choir: “You blew his mind out in a car, Boulette 399… Speak Speak!”

Remembering barrel-exit, sea of faces never noticed until skull-shatter,
eyewitnesses arched necks, looked uptown, downtown,
Julia Ann Mercer, James W. Altgens, Charles Brehm & son,
they all wondered from where I came – a window, a grassy knoll?
What was I doing? Brain-matter on upon trunk, sirens, a convertible limousine forever raced toward abyss.1

Winchester Cathedral Choir: “Go on, take the money and run, damn torpedo, whoo-hoo!”

Exit-wound in throat, Kennedy lunged backward, I bore through leather upholstery, entered a Governor’s back, autopsy doctors searched, but they could not find me, until someone at Parkland Hospital bumped a stretcher, & as far as cranial wounds go and Arlen’s theory, I nonchalantly fell from Connally’s suit, got “two” for price of “one.”

Winchester Cathedral Choir: “There ain’t no prize in bottom of cracker-jack box, and two out of three ain’t bad!”

Fifty years later, I blow-out candles,
let Warren Commission eat cake, save icing for Joint Chiefs of Staff, I shall forever praise Gods of Boulette — the first-ever, a lead-ball named Adam’s Apple, father of cannon,
father of .58 Minie Ball, father of “dum-dum,” father of Einfield rifle. Father of Fat-Man, father of me… 6.5 Carcano, # 399.
How we changed worlds… targets past, a Caesar, Emancipator,
an Archduke, Bolshevik in Mexican exile, a robed-Hindu,
and “tomorrow, tomorrow,” a Dreamy-Preacher, another Kennedy, a Beatle, John-John & Wellstone down without shots, who’s next?

Winchester Cathedral Choir: “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”

I annihilate the living , no blood on hands, I am proud of trophies, a skull, standstill of time, a big Texan-hand on Bible, blood on pink dress, a plot below Lee’s mansion, Ich bin ein Berliner, 3,000 half-naked Kenyan tribesman stood in silence, a Birmingham youth, Rusty Wesson, called “open mike” WQXI in Atlanta, opined, “Any white man who did what he did for niggers should be shot.”

Winchester Cathedral Choir: “Southern man don’t need Bossa Nova and Mark Lane around.”

Hunt for other killers? I am silver, untouchable — F.B.I. “certified” Red-Eye flight from Book Depository window, Jackie conceded error, Zapruder frame # 223 on Life Magazine cover, Ruby and Dallas Police, whiz-kid McNamara and Ho toe-to-toe, catafalque in East Room, no one shall ever know, where does the Triple Underpass go?

Winchester Cathedral Choir: “I thought you would all like to know, Sergeant Pepper has stolen the show,
happy birthday # 399 and fifty (50) mo to go.”

• Author’s note: Eleven years old, November 22nd, 1963, a grade school teacher sadly announced JFK was shot, class dismissed. Upon my walk home, a fellow student (neighbor) whose parents disliked Democrats, whooped-up and cheered the news. Years later, I have problems with both Democrats & Republicans, and the “Magic Bullet,” theory, product of a “gifted legal mind,” troubles me so. This poem is my 50th birthday card for the Magic Bullet.

  1. Thanks to Gary Corseri for the words “a convertible limousine raced toward abyss” []

Charles Orloski lives in Taylor, Pa. He can be reached at: orlovzek13@al.com. Read other articles by Charles.