H e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s b e r g
N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i v e s E d i t i o n
The world reads icy newspapers
Whatever the politicians say in fine print no longer matters
It's the way the pages will yellow in the end
Finally, we've seen lava seeping through the walls
Finally, we've seen the rains launch upward
If thunder begins inside our own bodies, where will we hide?
They will say the question hasn't been studied enough
They will say the burning sensation is only in our imagination
They're right; and yet where does one go to escape the imagination?
To our deaths, that's where!
From the cemetery, the corpses no longer care what car we drive
The thigh bone in far corner prefers a Ford SUV
The skull on the left loves the roominess of a pickup truck
Even from their graves, the little ones with cancer'd spines
are asking adults for help.
[Originally published in NHS 2006, http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/nhs06/Katz.htm.]