Sunday Deck Too Near DC

The arctic north grew bored
torturing Emerald City
winter bailed last week amidst
the longest snows on record
endured by aging Woodstock fans
watching TV empire play
with new-cast legionnaires
riding Hummers with no armor.
Boreas shrugged–he shirked–
the ice gave back a smallish lake.

Jets–off course–they would be
were these normal times
AWACs float in clouds
above a Sunday deck
jet fighters flank the city
minutes down the road.
W’s rant’s are being marshalled
trying out our battle cry
He tried to kill our daddy!
to offer oil to the victors
sopping blood into the sand
far too easy to lampoon
too bleak a turn–too near DC
afterburners shake bare trees
an argument I take no part of
played out to the death
my sworn country seems is set upon
more battle flags and amputees.
Old men call the dance
younger with less guile will die.
While here strapped in beauty
I am–am I–removed or left behind?
Ryan did not die for country
though others will replace him,
those young volunteers to freedom.
HIs life for love was squandered
would these wounded be so different?
So fine an edge so blunt the end
and Baghdad will be worse.

Mankind is not humane
the derivation is conceit
we are a work in progress
ferrets in a hole depending
on the weather’s turn.
We have a need to feast
to clean our teeth and lick our balls
and if we leave the carcass long
others swarm the spoils and so
the only question posed
will this latest reign as Empire
be even sometimes peaceful?

Wherever can I stand, my God
where will there be a refuge?

For one who fears the weak,
the conscience-plagued like swimmers
panicked in an undertow, who cries
for children, strays and loveless
fears their fate, this crippling grief
the beast now raging in the shallows
roaming mad with freedom.

Fear the hormones, fear their lack
the insane one who straps it on
and fear a European turn
of back, forget the popes
and French silk kings, Cromwell’s
hate of Irish trash, Swiss taste
for Jewish gold–forget the Texan’s
sycophants, forgive the cursed
of Palestine, forget Tora Bora’s cavemen
obliterating Buddha’s face
in Africa forget where men still
hang a phallus proud and ride
their donkey wives.

Outside this sanctum lake
commuters run their town cars fast
seeming take no notice
Abrams tanks, Apaches winding up
for another TV run, so little let disturb
their cell phone lives. Go shopping.
We hear Europe is aghast.
From those who stand to lose
the most Mars will be blood sated.

In coming weeks for solace
wanting green to tint the gray
our back bay to come back
huskies by my chair alert
our mostly languid lives will
not be jolted by the wrack
of bombs and wailing grief
the sky tattooed, poor Baghdad.

March, ‘03