Saturday, September 13, 2014

Windows


Diversion

For the time being, the succulent compassion,
streaming from so many directions and gorged
with money, is being totaled and distributed among
the ten thousand children whose parent or parents
evaporated in the jet stream like sizzling ants.
Poor mortals, languishing in a Survivor-less hell,
can again wallow over a case of beer.
God bless the commerce, the way I see
it, so prez., partner, and princes can press forward
with scripture, a license to kill, and all mania
is loosed like a jillion roaches on wee little
folk, we elves, who hapless, get crushed between
two land masses of madness and colored cloths.

                            Tracer 

Do onto others as others consume, the cleft
dollar that burgeoned higher than a sequoia.
I can't express the intolerance, the sheer rupture
that long ago began with the first exclusion.
One buck for the white man, nought for the red.
No, it was centuries before that—this culmination
neither death nor birth but the interminable middle,
the center centered so all eyes are diverted.
Every answer is answerable, all marrow
a continuous dying, so surfeited with grief
I mouth only the obvious—it roars savager
than a jungle, more tangled, the poisonous berries
gleaming red contiguous with the luscious melons
no one eats for fear of not knowing the difference.



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