Poetry

One of the children will lose her daughter
in one of the towers on  9/11.
 
One of the children will run a huge publishing house
selling best-sellers about 9/11.

Today it is Palestine. 
Tomorrow 
they will come 
for all the rest 
of the malcontents,

they understand that adjectives
are the wrong kind of solution
and that the verbs will only arrive
once it is too late

We’re not afraid.
We’re not here.
We’re molting.
We’re unpracticing breath.
We’re clinging to the bell rope.
We’re kissing the morphine drip.

They speak of charity
Resenting the little they give
And of mercy
When merciless with those whose trust they have betrayed,

Since I have seen the peeled truth of mortality and ecology, and earth’s future is to become Byron’s “lump of death,” my plan is to dance wildly and work on, oh, my God! sounding like Bless their hearts.

Because it is recursive
        I’ll drown my book in a city of lost tongues
        Rosy ideologies
        Troubled newborns
        The dead who speak to have their voices murdered

This revolution's being televised.
A country raped as tyranny unfolds
--these current circumstances? No surprise.
The 80s embraced fascism's slow rise
--a country slept while specters grafted lies

Suggestion:
Strike the porch.
Replace with air missile or apartment balcony.
Add a radio tuned
to an obsolete language.