I flew too low under their radar to be see, until it was too late.The young brash scribes with fire in their pens, wild eyed on opinion, blue hair, tattoos, tobacco breath, ranting.

They were the first to go when the bombs hit.

Death is good for the young writer. The ones that live past youth. Some have something to say. Unless they go on to write a pot boiler or a murder mystery named L is for Lousy. I admire their prose but they are all bunched together and the bombs cannot tell good from other. Death is good for some young artists. The strong survive. Scars are good to write about. Ask Papa.

Then I fly to the Iowa hills of the MFAers. They hide with the greats pretending the bombs won't find them. Huddled in perfect syntax and knowing a diphthong from a gerund.

Oh how they burn bright in dawn's early light when the bombs hit. I listen to Smooth Operator on my iPod and let the bombs go. But some are good! my conscious begs. Yes, but so is a Thomas Kincade painting. The literary world is no place for the sensitive kind. But what about all the prefect — yes, they are perfect! — prose of those MFAers!

How cruel!
How cruel!
How cruel!

Holding my hands over my mouth like children do in church when they get the uncontrollable giggles, then unable to hold it in any longer the laughter gushes out, I point up into the sky and the literate turn and squint their eyes and drop their pens. Too late. I fly too low under their radar to be seen.

Bombs away.