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State
of the Union 2004
worms sing flesh
into the bleached skull's bones
where eyes once
peered into sermon'd stones
where feigned
peace blasts the aging parents' dreams,
imperators croon
skipping lines to bind their silent screams
when earthen fire
bleeds in the ape king's quick smiles
flag-draped
howlers silence cries with guns & bibles
then await
disease & fire wafting over bowing heads,
find thirst among
the sewer'd waters & floating dead—
then blame &
rage crowd that land where racing wheels
burn the earth
beneath & reduce all love to deals
so they inherit
the flames they sow as glib-tongued peace
& bring their
own bullets in as entré to the feast—
pass over despriz'd
lovers they account least.
Previously published in Long Shot: Beat Bush Issue, Volume 27, 2004.
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? who set him up? what childhood,
what parents, 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 and this woman-
what hearts did they have as they returned to silent
rooms,
alone? or this young 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.
in congress, rumsfeld stammers
& stalls, suggesting darker
tales to come: what is it, now, to call oneself American?
Desert
Serenade
even in
shadows of death by fire, one 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).
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.
Written for Ed Sanders' Woodstock Journal: October Surprise, 2004.
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