Saturday, September 10, 2011

all hale and fair well

 
Timothy McVeigh Is Still Dead

It's morning in America
The morning of June 11, 2001
A warm and beautiful Spring day
And in Terre Haute, Indiana -- a little after 7:00 am
--Timothy McVeigh is dead.
What more is there to say?
We all know the score:
Death: 169, Mercy: 0
The hero "bloody, but unbowed"
Silenced, but still proud
Ashes to scattered ashes
Death to death.
 
 
 
War Games
 
More and more
get less and less
the best sacrificed
to great God Success
Anger
building
brick by bloody brick
Is it a surprise
("Look!  Into my eyes!")
when the peasants cackle
resurrecting the guillotine
Raw power
hot metal shooting
making unmistakable mark
burning ragged skin and guts
and glory
 
Tell me a story, daddy
about before the war
when water flowed
in abundant freedom
when the air was pure
of the stench
of progress
when everybody had
a sacred right
to feel
and believe
and dance in the moonlight
when we could afford to be
young, untried, open
to possibilities not cut off
by a sacrificial knife
repeatedly deeply severing
vital organs
without regard to the waste
with no respect for place
or the people for whom that space
holds stories
 
Weapons forged in anger
built up shattered layers of
desperate pride, disrespect, grief
create festering wounds
poisoning the populace
unto the Seventh Generation
caught up in some grotesque
morality play
 
 
 
The Enemy
 
 Hiding from bombardments.
 Thick, black water;
 no thirst is worth this
 indignity.
 
 Running through rubble,
 recently devolved
 homes, commerce, community.
 Extended families,
 aunts and cousins,
 good neighbors,
 valued friends,
 devolved to shattered corpses.
 
 Wailing at a divisive wall in the name of
 humanity, freedom,
 chaotic prophecies whisper,
 imprinting reign of Hell upon
 modern Earth.
 Policy statements fly
 in protective formation
 "We can not give in to
 the enemy."
 
 
Lesson of The Great Depression
 
The machines stand patiently
ready to act on human command.
Workers expectantly arise
to resume their duties.
Tools, systems, routes, logistics
lined up for service.
Plants to sow and reap; structures
to build, maintain, repair, replace;
commodities to be united with
their markets; music to be played;
enchanting murals to paint;
shows that must go on; coffee
to be made; errands to run;
endless activities and professions
imposing order on entropy.
Teach the curious,
heal the sick or broken,
enforce the law,
tend to the poor.
Society's capillaries clogged by
a powerful voodoo.  All is
needing to be done, but stopped
dead or cancerously
receding from living
for want of the magic beans,
the mysterious force of money,
a social construct gone mad,
constricting the flow of life.
 
 
Red-Blooded
 
Let's talk about this.
Exactly what are we afraid of?
Different skins, different thoughts?
"These people are not like us."
Nor we like them.
Legends say we fear
and fight the barbarians.
A receding panorama
of battle upon battle.
Millennia of genocide
proudly proclaimed.
We must be strong warriors,
rough, sharp, explosive,
valiantly a barricade barrage
protecting Our valued and values
from Their predation.
Lines must be drawn clearly.
Womanly, childish fuzzy vulnerability
cast far behind, confined to
defended shelters
kept at bay with bitter laughter,
raucous play.
These patterns built up over
generations serve us well,
minimizing weakening contamination.
 
 
strangling heaven
 
How do you know that
you're strangling heaven?
Taught to irrelevant
standardized scales
Taught to be standardized,
Christian White Males
or wherever you're placed
and timed
Taught to believe the sublime
is but an affectation,
drug-induced hallucination,
not to be relied upon
when creditors come to call
demanding payment
for providing you with life.
Selling your soul for nickels and dimes,
the working-class creed.
Giving in to everyday crimes,
habituated to need
secondhand pleasures,
pirated treasures
that never succeed in
destroying the pain,
the long season of Hell
you strive to explain
"it's his fault" "it's their fault"
"it's my fault"
all victims of blame.
And you're strangling heaven.
You're making it impossible to survive,
denying your passion to thrive,
denying your worth,
the blessing of birth onto
this mortal stage.
You pace in your cage
as if castrated of will.
And heaven so wants you,
surrounds you, offers
your most deeply hoped for love,
boundless happiness, life eternal,
every pocket of your soul
exquisitely fulfilled.
Heaven offers you her open arms,
and you, in your hellish nightmare,
strangle her
unaware.
 
 
Gospel
 
Sally, won't you go
downtown
Pick up some teabag party
clowns
We'll teach 'em tricks of trade
from streets walled in by
degradation
Ain't this nation grand
for glad hands raised in celebration
of shames we dare not name.
 
Hallelujah  Hallelucinations
Hallowed ground baptized
in blood
Saved from the cleansing Flood
by sticking to our kind
however we're defining us today
If we were meant to live
a different way
wouldn't He have told us?
 
 
Freedom FOR Security
 
Either, by nature, you're plagued with paranoia
Or you've bought pervasive propaganda.
I do understand:
It was so cheap, and in your colour.
It wasn't labeled "Propaganda"
Sold as "News," common knowledge,
accommodation to the norm.
And it fits your internal dialog so well
"Danger is everywhere these days of disorder,
scary change."
Just like all the days
when Freedom seems such a flimsy wage,
a cheap exchange
for sham Security.
 
 
 
80's legacy (happy Independence)
 
Don't blame the GWB administration, it was Reagan and his merry crew.
Though we protested in the post-Vietnam 70's
hot and sure about every error
the point is, we had that luxury.  Yes, there was hardship,
discrimination,
individual need; but really no one need go hungry
for lack of a job, there was real community
spirit, especially on the lower rungs, but philanthropy as well.
There was a strong foundation that made sense
and could be reasoned with.
The 80's brought in a different worldview,
more wide and wild.  Days of cocaine,
champagne, glamour and celebration for sweet deregulation,
when every dreamer
could believe the capitalist vision of wealth unbound. 
Before it was found that
poisonous as plutonium in the gleeful arms of the truly greedy,
just what we
were free to become. 
Since then it's been spinning our balance to bits of
blast-warped brains. 
Such unbridled hatred and spitting disdain.  Psychic
Cassandras said at the time, his numbers are 666. 
A man possessed by
Hollywood fantasies of what we all should be,
folie a deux with the nation.
And here are those snowy yesteryears roosting
in our rafters, laying out
the macabre future of their disaffected dreams. 
Who are we, really?
Distanced from our history,
believing convenient lies, what are our chances
for recovery?
 
 
Mothers' Night
 
cascading shards
uneasy
echoes falling
"It's our calling."
 
Rape of Earth,
hot spurts of words
savage knives
Abiding Mothers,
sacred and mundane
twist into harridan
cold stars
 
wail, hurtling waves
Sad, old, crust of ages
sliced, screwed, carved up for profit
"It's not the color of the skin,
the culture of the smile"
 
the scent of danger,
the inborn stranger --
all excuses for Us (superior)
and Them (inferior)
"They are not like we;
but lower curs."
we may harm with unfettered glee
 
Cursed to be cut to our requirement.
Borders clear
"Here, fear fences in
our livelihood and wives."
Leave THEM to putrid pits
cunning jabs,
our pleasure.
 
Thus, all treasure that might regale,
heal, reveal true worth,
of man and Earth
sold for pittance of potash
to dance a weary jig
 
 
social net
 
Yes, of course we ought be fiscally responsible.
Yet of far more import is that we be rational.
Hyperbolic apoplectic, Apocalyptic rhetoric
reduces us from politic to stagey raving maniacs.
No need for such hysteria; learn from recent history.
The flagrant ways of LBJ, Reagan and GWB
found mitigation in administrations following.
The People, energized, expand instead of wallowing.
Exciting industries take hold, real worth -- not hollow gold.
 
The conversation we as a nation need
is not a war of virtue versus greed
or capturing the rules to win a game
or playing catch with sophistry and shame.
We need to ask and answer in sobriety
Who we best can be as a society
 
 
eve of 9/11/11

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