ALL RESPONSES |
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THE HONOR ROLL
It looks long, that list: seventy years
of wars. Some wars didn't even make the list.
Not enough spaces in the back calendars.
I've lived through the five or six spelled out.
Long enough to remember my cousins
writing censored letters from Pacific islands.
Okinawa. Kyushsu. No news was bad news.
Too long to find war surprising--not sure
I even find it appalling,
yet I sense it is. Caligula and Stalin also are.
Hirohito, Pol Pot, and me.
We are the inevitable, yes. Preventable, no.
Not that anyone cares what I think.
What I think is thoughts. Old woman thoughts.
Empty stuff, trying
like ectoplasm to solidify into the space,
and vaguely well succeeding
for fifty thousand years.
Do not believe that a government of women
could bring an end to war.
You are living in a dream. Start there.
Here are poisons. We are the carriers.
Violence infects us--
the docile, the over-protected and the pacifists.
I have a mind to put down words
and take up grizzly-bear lessons; concentrate
on the hiatus. Still hearing potshots in Kosovo.
No great field is ever left alone.
The next one is just behind that huge, strategic hill. |
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The People assemble
to express disagreement.
Voices echo, gathering strength.
Politicians ponder power.
Cameras record the show.
Generals and seargents
count the days, planning
transition to civilian.
Childhood's dim light
comes to them in dreams,
residue of innocence.
Peace, fleeting ideal,
almost seems real,
heaven's promise in reach.
So let the People speak
their dissenting views.
Soldiers watch the news,
and try to think
of anything but home. |
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why he wore the mask
I could not tell
his name
I already knew
the sign he held
was my picture
but I could not get past
the paper
holding me back I
am pasted on and
cut up just
like his persona
taller than the rest
so that the government
snipers
and all of the photographers
can pick me out
of the crowd.
X
yellow is the color of
cowards, right, I mean
if you really want to show
that you disapprove you
should shout out loud
in the streets, push over
cars, light buildings
on fire, explode EMP’s,
take over small countries…
but you’re missing
the point, progress takes…
whenever it can, capitalism
desires and desires and desires…
and desires and desires—
it becomes monotonous and
that is why we put up with it.
but you could say something
in a way that could be heard;
stand out in front of tanks
as they barrel down on you—
even the Chinese got it right
on both sides—extremes.
and the crowd is outside while
I sit in the shade of a lamp-lit
cubicle, I can’t afford to join
the crowd, the union, the protest,
the effort
is just too much. I have three
kids to feed, and a partner with
cancer
eating at her insides
this
country
a million ways to read a sign;
how to post one, and the reality
that if They want you gone, you
will disappear; it will
not even be on the evening news.
X
I stared around at everyone that was there.
some of them had only hope
nothing else.
Their bodies touched and rolled
as one organism, an insect of vast proportions,
and together they turned,
ignoring the cameras, not one hand raised,
voices projecting but bodies crushing
their own effort.
they could not run.
someday it will be legal
to take away the rights of strangers
just because they are in your neighborhood
and you do not like the look of their clothes
or even just
because they are walking
instead of driving a Mercedes
someday
gates will keep out the unwanted
police will be feared
the whitehouse will be a joke
and our president
get this
will be the oldest boy
of the old boys
he will have snorted cocaine
and said that jesus christ saved him
which will go over well with some
of the dying public
opinion
our country is digressing
just like this poem lost
focus
try to
regain consciencness
before
It is too late.
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Dissent may be
patriotic, but if you have
to do it on a half-bare ass
then you ought to ask
whether people give
a damn about your message
or whether your protest
is merely entertainment
diversion
In the days of FSM and People’s
Park, Berkeley,
The Sixties (Vietnam era
for those who can’t place
the decade) so much of what we
did was less, far less
than patriotic. For patriotism
and truth did not a good blend
make. We wanted truth, so
rejected lies and compromises
(in others), never sacrificing our
own good times for greater cause
(we never bet our lives)
we played at roles that leant
our pallid lives excitement
emulating the fashion
of Left Bank intellectual
movements
we were such fashionable
intellectuals, standing
in the streets, waving signs
a carnival of imitation
relishing bygone days
and wishing
we could be someone
who mattered, who even,
maybe, made a difference.
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Not what i expect:
one man among passing thousands.
On his knees. Begging.
He is beautiful, in a hungry
kind of way. Face flat, head down.
Like Jesus down from the cross.
I am afraid to touch him so I sit
across the street. Order green tea.
Watch. Forty-five minutes later,
I rise and approach him.
“How long will you stay?”
His eyes notice my shadow. In between
shallow breaths, he says nothing.
“How long will you stay?”
His yellow skin shines defiantly. I drop
ten dollars in the black box near his forehead.
Leave.
Believing,
there is comfort in nothing. |
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Who are these people I pass in the street?
What are they like? Every person is alike,
yet different. Every age is an old story,
making its reappearance as fire. I keep
thinking of what lurks inside their bodies,
old age, accidents, regrets, twitches
of happiness.. Every swallow turns sensual
in a young woman’s throat; someday old
women will inhabit her body, shove her
inside a heart’s chamber restricted
from the future. She’ll sit there and lick
her full lips. Who knows when the X
in bodies will happen, pent up in eyes,
feet? Shouldn’t this slow the crowd down?
Which night will become an eternity?
Someitmes I say God bless you because
I don’t know any other concept large
enough to cover so many people.
Their voices’ timbre, already changed
from yesterday into another tone today.
What is their life behind their current faces?
I’m passing emperors, empresses whose empire
builds and fades with every step. --Ah! here’s
my car, waiting for me. I get in and, yes,
drive on, into the little country that lies ahead.
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I see them standing on what we have dubbed
“peace bridge”
with their signs and their receding hair lines
Potbellies and hoary faced dogs on leashes
with their bad hips,
Frail arms raised extending two fingers and
I contemplate raising just one in return
but honk a few tinny beeps
so nobody driving confuses my solidarity
with the more practical intent of the horn.
I can feel the strength of their convictions
through my hermetically sealed car
as the wind,
bottlenecked by the Mississippi,
cuts over the bridge,
making exposed eyes tingle
and the cynical marketer in me wonders aloud,
--Why aren't there any pretty people protesting?
and my wife, my copilot, my passenger
never missing a beat, always showing me the real target,
the heart of the matter, says:
--Everybody knows pretty people are too selfish to protest
and I laugh at that truth, but in hindsight, it isn’t so funny.
In hindsight, it sounds like a death knell.
We continue home to junk mail and bills,
and do the things we should be doing
like chopping and dusting and fucking
skewering every word we can with ING,
trying to get ahead in the world
trying so hard to be unlike our parents
that we turn into what they railed so hard against
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He stood out.
But the glimpse I got
made it hard to say,
was his right eye closed?
The left one looked as if
it was open.
Or was it closed as well.
On the other hand,
his left eye
might not have been visible
from where I stood.
And then, his right eye
could have been plastered over
a band aid
to cover the bruise he got
at the last protest rally. |
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Whose child is this?
A family stands
on the beach flanked
by an honor guard.
Whose husband is this?
Whose father?
Taps in the sunlight
at the sea’s edge.
Skeins of gulls
make holes in the sky.
Young children cling
to their mother, his parents
fold into each another.
What country is this?
Just as the notes of taps fade
a marine sergeant runs by,
chants his drills while
four young grunts behind
count… one…two…three…four.
Whose sons are these?
At first I think it is part
of the funeral, then the family
turns to stare in horror.
One dead, four more
to take his place.
Where are we now?
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protesters pray
for something
accountable,
reasons for wrongs,
when it’s really wishes
they should want
the difference between a prayer
and a wish is a prayer is failure,
even before it is sets out
to someone else’s porch,
someone else’s street,
to someone else’s war
prayer is something
said after the dead
are already dead
a wish is failure only
when said over and over
by a child, yet
nothing happens
wishing wants
prayer to know that
so it stops
protesting
its failures |
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for the photo EvenMyDog'sARepublican
He is flagged as I am
with my country's colors.
We step out
not knowing why
(to be a part of something?
to matter?
to be noticed?)
The dog doesn't know.
I'm not sure I do.
Let us march.
We'll find out.
We'll discover where
the parade is going.
My dog my soldier
my colors
and i
wave to the democrats and others
with their smaller flags. |
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a letter without hands
people dressed in white like V’s
statuesque, Romanesque
Nixonesque, albeit sleezy
i wanted a V once; it died
before i could get it home
i buried it next to my only U,
beside all the W’s of my sad life
X’s & Y’s have it made,
intersecting most times,
the kinky ones often bisect,
two, three times an evening
abc’s have children,
O & K get to stay out late
P & Q, mind yours
it’s the damn V’s that stare
down the woods, play games
with north flying geese
V’s win for the sake of winning,
boast with folded eyes
V’s once refused to be greater
or less than meaningless numbers,
mutinied against the establishment
became outcasts and were shuffled
toward the back of our alphabet
they protest in vain |
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I see protesters
whenever I pass Snelling Avenue and Summit—
the crossroads—
where those who once sold their souls
have come back to try
the rest of us.
I am impatient, and rarely smile
at their impertinence—they
who worked under fluorescent lights
for the last thirty years,
finally come out to shout
and parade.
I drive by, and
I too honk
but realize that there are only
ten hippies left in the world;
the rest are butts, smoking in the tray
as I grind my own out.
My father was one
of the originals, strode around campus
in a toga splashed with pig’s blood—
he told me later it was ridiculous,
after he had found religion
and given up joy, and outrage.
And there is no way in hell
that I am going to be a late comer
to this crowd, this gathering, this
breath or gasp—I
have better things to do, like
catch the evening news, and a sitcom. |
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it was no small feat
to carry the coffin
through the throng
of coughing coronas,
the would be angels
that shouted, “shame
on you, you
should know better;”
to a dead man.
and it was cynicism
in my voice that said,
“shut up. They
are already gone,” and
delivered a sound slap
to the coffin lid,
making it a drum, a voice
for those who pawned
their lives without a choice.
my sister almost was
roped into the cause—
just before the conflict
she had gone to a recruiting
office and organized
a way for her to pay
off all of her student loans,
but she did not sign
the papers with her blood;
and now this corpse
in effigy is paraded
by me, through the streets,
and I can only think
that I am happy
a different person died
and took her place,
the one that she so
cleverly conceded to another. |
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to a photo by the same name
The laptop flickers in my hotel room, painting my face with green and white strobes. Data flows in from wireless sensors, cell phone taps, hidden micro-cameras, and undercover plants in the crowd. An expensive software application parses the information, writes it into a database, and presents it to me in canned reports. Detailed histories of almost every protester are immediately available in an intuitive graphical format. I zoom in on selected targets, listen to an informant's report, and take an occasional look out the window to measure the progress of the demonstration. Of course, I already know the exact route, the objective, and the rough draft of each speech made by each ringleader. This is to be a peaceful demonstration, drawing on a core constituency of aging hippies, minor poets and would-be political pundits. The press is present, cameras pre-positioned for money shots of beards and t-shirts waving signs in outrage. There is work to be done.
I was originally attracted to government service by the honorable nature of the career, and the inherent security offered by the position. It became an opportunity to exercise innate analytical talents. I find humanity to be the most interesting thing on earth, and delight in associating character traits with threads of obscure paper trails, video recordings, sounds bites, and legal documents. Entire lives can be reconstructed and pieced together based on seemingly disparate spurs. With the power of the technology an almost unlimited amount of money can buy, processes flow as rapidly and as eloquently as the mind is able to discern them. There are few secrets. After years of observation, I know some of the people in the crowd quite well.
The gentleman in the mask, for instance, has been a grad student at a local college for the past twelve years, and is a Satan-worshiper. The young woman in front of him is a social worker, a single mother of two, and a casual drug user. All Muslims in the crowd have been identified. A prominent GLBT activist is also present. There is also a new face in the crowd, a self-proclaimed poet wearing a kilt, who nonetheless is deserving of attention due to his military career and his background in electronic security.
Of primary interest to me, though, is an older woman, wearing a cap and sunglasses. The report from the database tells me she must be an anarchist. I have followed her from demonstration to demonstration, taking note of new contacts, unusual behaviors and possible legal infringements. She has stayed out of trouble so far, but I'm here to make sure of it. After all, she's my mom. I'll keep a good eye on her. |
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Wearing the bows proudly to match ma'am
is not something I thought up on my own.
But hide within my own skin I will not
after all, a dog is a man's best friend. |
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I see the faces of today's youth.
Disillusioned,
they manifest in the streets
holding a sign, asking for what is simply
their rights, the truth.
Trust, is not what they feel
when hearing the empty promises
our society makes,
our politicians make,
our industries make
for a better life for all.
Jobs, sourced outside this country
assure them that their opportunity
to work,
to grow healthy,
to retire well,
to live in peace with the world,
isn’t the agenda it is supposed to be.
Broken illusions are angry.
They wear masks, serious stares, bandanas
dark sunglasses.
Their frustration
emanates scents and vibrations.
Their voices are loud,
scream for answers,
some of which they know
will never come.
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Oh America land of the free
land of the brave willing
to tell the truth
willing to declare the end to slavery
to the Brits or white landed gentry
willing to take a chance and start
over on the prairie, the tenement, the suburbs
Oh America land of the complacent
land of the tame
what happened to the wild
courage of dreaming
a life of equality for all
even those who live
on top of “our” oil fields
own “our” poppy fields
take the profits of “our” prostitution rings
in a jungle village far away from the
pretty life: 1˝ children and a wife
who works at her job
as hard as her home
O America: shame on you!
shame on you!
where is the sense of justice
you once embraced
close to the poor the huddled
your masses teeming with poverty
and a hunger to have it all
Oh America, I have run away
so many times, I have
at least 3 expired passports
and still here I am, head in my
hands, wondering why
I can’t find a peaceful exit
and why you can’t let
go the reins on the world’s
desire to eat for cheap and
be entertained for free?
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