N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 2
Way Beyond Anger
Pursued by at every turn by
some rage with a raincheck
that I stowed away
now back with a vengeance
and a penchant for
way beyond anger
into undealable disbelief —
no dealing with the
knockout punch of irony
or is this all just
elaborate preparation for death?
Katie Couric thinks so —
From Benghazi to Baghdad to Kandahar I am way beyond anger
From Fukushima to Chernobyl to the Gulf of Mexico I am way beyond anger
As a father, an earner, a taxpayer, I am
As a ‘lonely man in the middle of something that he doesn’t really understand’
As a rider, a commuter, a cubicle rat fighting for company kibble
I am way way beyond anger
What we defend
ultimately kills us;
the portfolio of successful jobs
the dusty black portfolio in the garage,
the online portfolio,
the multimedia DVD portfolio,
the portfolio of horribly bad decisions
perfectly timed to be even more horrifically ironic
to screw myself as completely and deeply as I can,
to wound myself
way beyond an iron-on
way past a life-o-plasty
that masks some youthful folly
or carefree moments of oblivion
but to be spared one last misstep
to stem this tide of sadness,
blinder this aching hunger
that reaches way beyond the boundaries of the fort.
Indian Point, built on a fault, is 30 miles from here
I guess we’d head north if anything happened
but from there, who knows?
Wherever it is, I will be way beyond anger
no more would dancing bears make me smile
I walk past the Army Recruiting Center, neon ol’ glory
50 Ft. Nasdaq HDTV wraparound video wall,
past the Good Morning America studio Euro-tourist 8AM Beatlemania screams
and I am way, way beyond anger; coffee spills over in the bag,
soaks my ham and egg on an onion roll.
Arthritis, stenosis, domino row of root canals
carpal tunnel, Lincoln Tunnel, throw in the towel
dodge sinus drain Port Authority hobble stank crowd
I am way beyond anger crossing Times Square
eye-migraine blindered against Madam Toussaud and B.B. King
no one carrying a Times anymore
no one cares much about ink on paper
iPod wired sardines play Gen Z punk to Superfly in caffeinated VR 3D hypnosis
the voices of history exponentially multiply
until everyone has a voice in the social record
but no one can hear and understand, no one can read more than 145 characters at a time — twits tweet crossing streets oblivious to traffic
I am way beyond anger at inane urban bloggers
that turn the mundane view out their apartment windows
into purple cellophane universes; lots of crisp sexy noise, no candy.
I listen to the dead whisper toothy puzzles into a fish eye lens
their prismatic voices cry an inverse rainbow of beats and frequencies
being pulled smaller and smaller into a great mass of warning
fine hairs stand on end and burn for less than a nanosecond I’m told
as you are turned inside out like a tissue blown
now I know, they’re my family, those voices,
silenced in the Holocaust, with ringside seats for the rematch.
Both sides gear up for terrible loss.
They are my family, those voices,
killed at Nagasaki, burned by knowledge, hubris, and device
passed-over survivors in their own way
Put that on your iPad and tap it
kick that down the torrent and make it viral
an alien server ODBC bridge uncloaks on the event horizon
our infant signal detected
the earth shudders and makes waves.
Robots at the reactor report the radiation is way too high
for walking-dead scientists to bear
2200 degree steam jets out from cracked concrete
The city’s moist heat smells of distant tornados —
Forsythia in bloom on Bear Mt. — my knee hurts, eyes burn with pollen
Harley sounds freaking great though, heirloom tomato sprout bed in mold
9/11 responders grilled as suspected terrorists
before getting their benefits
Every bus ride is a potential explosion
commuters moan by the side of the road while Rabbis gather flecks of skin to bury.
Every bridge and tunnel, targeted cloverleaf, outcrop of shallow-rooted locusts
all vulnerable to earthquake, hurricane, 747, scud, laser battleaxe, economic hack
Woman drives her van off the pier by Gully’s
kills 3 of her kids, the oldest, 10, survives.
and Little Leibby Kletzky; Levi hid the boys severed feet in his freezer
his little lost feet that fell into a monster’s trap of madness and panic dismemberment.
[MAYHEM! A LIFETIME OF WARS!
(a chorus of off-key horns —
1120 Ave. of the Americas sways back and forth as the blanket of mantle is
fluffed in Virginia, trees flatten in Craigville, floods move neighborhoods,
roads abruptly end at walls of rubble or lead into new lakes)]
I am a freak poet who cares and hates what the world has done
and hasn’t done to date — I hate the freaking world, the fears it manufactures for compulsory sale — the lack of a real choice in leader
I vote to wipe the slate; scrape the torrent with a new tracker
attract a swarm of responsible hackers and lizard-genius trans-human moshiach mensch
to warn aside another genocidal attack, lift arms and voices at once
too tense to bridge the rift in situational earthcraft, we escape slowly;
the latency of change-managed revolution.
I look at old photos from before the war, dwell on my great-uncle,
imagine the conversations we might have had
Their voices won’t leave me alone
but I am too far gone; way way beyond.