Desert
Serenade
even in shadows of death by
fire, she dreams lost
lazy July rivers, loves
lock'd in memory's starry kiss,
the long envision'd trip
home, tearful parents—
time's illusions stripped
bare now in the blinding sun,
the sudden crash beyond the
vehicle in desert dawn
brings one back & here she sat—2 RPG duds thudding
20 feet behind—lock &
load, & there, not 30 yards away,
one ran for life as another
furiously loaded another round,
aiming at her as she aimed
at him—so easy to take down
black silhouettes, so unlike
the living man beyond one's sight—
their eyes met, & then
he turned and was gone,
she shouted down later for
not pulling the trigger.
Beyond WMD
& Halliburton: the Latest Photo Op
the hushed-up secret flight,
the on-the-job fatigues,
hands bringing plates of
turkey & stuffing to astounded boys,
young women dressed as
killers even on their day off:
Friday's RPG casualties
dragged thru streets, mutilated, spat upon,
Saturday's bomb-blasted
corpses, slumped in burned-out
trucks, their companions
retching, reeling, firing into houses
where women & children
cower on the floor,
Sunday's press conference on
these last "desperate
acts" by a dying foe
even as more blasts echo across the suburbs:
as corporate contributors
revel in profits "rebuilding a nation,"
the prez mesmerizes
starry-eyed reporters,
voters sticking themselves
for a gas-fix, blue collar boys
thrown out of work looking
for someone to blame,
flag-waving killers who'd
slay their ten thousands for Christ—
all reach out for the plate
he has so carefully prepared .
Abu Ghraib
the prisoner wears a black
pointed hood; he stands, arms
extended as
in crucifixion, wires attached to his hands:
who set him up like
this? what parents, sisters, brothers,
childhood friends,
neighbors, knew those who could snap this
memento from the
cage? & here, a grinning man, arms
crossed,
& a woman leaning
forward laugh over prisoners jammed
together naked, heads in
hoods. this man & this woman—
what hearts beat softly as
they returned to their silent rooms,
alone? or this woman who smiles, thumbs up, fingers
pointing down
at the cock
of a hooded prisoner, hands tied above his head—
already she claims she
was forced, others were responsible, yet
now the
prisoner cannot live in his own home town, shamed..
here, the corpse has a
bandage under his right eye, agony stamped
in his dead
face: he is wrapped in cellophane,
packaged in ice.
Beslan
The strong young man,
cupid's bow lips, wide
eyes, wipes his brow,
his body shaking,
choking with sobs
before a photograph:
a
young girl in white,
her white hat tilted
rakishly, her dark eyes
glancing up
appealingly, small
hands clutching red
roses—
October Surprise: An Absurd Reverie
in october may banjos,
guitars, & violins serenade the clouds
& open the heavens that
the blasted & broken dead may rise
from mass graves & sing
again in voices unscarred by war—
in october Pablo Neruda will
return in his centennial year
& sing again the heroism
of peasants, that they labor sans layoffs,
that they have sunflowers
& sweetpeas before their windows
& songs rising from
their lost bedrooms in the starry night
where the moon shines over
the sea, that the lost dead
thrown from airplanes may
return, that Pinochet may wake
in his own nightmare &
sigh, that Allende may rise from the sea
& proclaim victory. may George Bush & Osama bin Ladin
kiss long & lustily,
make up & dance a duo in tutus
by moonlight; may Sadaam Hussein
& Donald Rumsfeld
exchange their grinning
skullfaces for the faces of angels
& may they learn the
ways of angels; may they learn to sing—
may unknown genius rise in
the land & discover energies
not tied to black gold
pollution; may the cartels fade away
& the armies lose their
weapons. may soldiers awake to find
themselves naked in the sand
& recall the hours of sandplay
when they first discovered
their nakedness & their hearts
beating to a tune not
devised by the musicians of hate.
in october, let there be a
surprise so absurd none may dream of it
in earnest: let the lovers emerge from the corolla of
sorrow & may
they proclaim at last a free
song that heals planet & heart altogether
Haditha
mother & child
bulleted as they knelt
in prayer—powder
burns
where the slugs
entered & tore flesh,
blood erupting into
dry air—
even as marines
moved on to machine gun
a man, his wife, his
daughters,
the blind old man,
father reading his Koran,
the grandmother,
mother,
brothers
& uncles. one survived,
playing dead beneath
the body of her
brother, his blood
covering, giving her
life.
Marines with cobbled armor
fight thru blind streets,
windows where
killers'
eyes could be staring down even
now—the
camera follows a lieutenant who'd
talked of
struggles with morale, his bright
face
self-assured despite his doubts—now
in combat
racing thru with his fellows then
screams
& fire, bullets thudding above
the wall where
the camera catches one
yelling
above gunfire, he's hit, he's hit—
call it
in—puddle of bright blood spreading
on the
pavement below: here on the TV
in the
locker room where boys & men
suit up
& return naked with their towels.
eight stand
again before the TV, still—
one has
dropped his towel & stands fully
naked, mouth
open, fully exposed.