End of the Tour

newspoem 22 March 2008

he had opened an ambiguity
        a rift of circumstance
he was not really president
        it wasn’t the president’s job he was doing

he gave me a rod sheathed in leather
        a gunmetal cylinder with the scent of licorice
a plane ticket with no return date

the monument had pinned the shards of stone
when upended it caused a fractured dissolution in the demographic mosaic
        a shrapnel of antiquity
feud bulbs bubble up
subjected to microwave radiation
in the relentless sinister spring sunshine
        a wavering fume bespoke a deadly nuisance
a wired bridge          never trust a vehicle

the rattling pterodactal shook loose a daisycutter
with an inhalation we saw a bag stiffen
sleep is not allowed to anybody in the zone for the duration
by the time the exploded carbomb has been reassembled stateside
        a media screen has bleached the bloodspots
        filtered the sweaty hungry desperate anger from its construction
        it merely was factoid X
        a linguistic equation
anything can equal anything if stubborn enough

twelve troops on patrol running a ratmaze
falling into a well of night
        a hypnotic undertone to the undertaker's requiem
static clouds the goggles
        I can't fire haphazardly into a blinding desert
adding light
        heat to light
they won't wait for the rich to bail us out
the purple sun is moldy
        green in the skies of static
the whole desert has poor reception
        as if not really here
not who I was
        a copy of an outline
insides scissored away
        repenciled in with speed
there is not a grenade I wish to sling
yet belts rattle with the weight of metal testes that terminate pregnancies

this is the other side of rhetoric
we have passed through the word liberation to see that it is insensible when viewed from behind
here an unfamiliar alphabet suggests exotic mistruths
        a mystical justification for violence
runes scribbled on history
        something that makes profound sense because it is not understood
the misery has risen
        lifting all boats
stripped of rationale
        following orders is grit in the cortex
when will we find time to peel those pearls back into dirt

there is a certain pressure to rape
        with that I try harder
having seen the godlike power of air assault
I have less than a halfpercent chance of making a sensible call
at night I dream of ice cream record stores
        skateboarding a laptop down telegraph avenues
there is not a flower in this land
I've brought the tourniquet I use to lash the brain
        the bayonet I use to pierce it
because every bullet I steer into another’s flesh wounds me because I am everybody
I have but one drop of spit I hoard in my boot

by day we make a bulls-eye
        at night we lie in it
metal corners
        air-conditioned grease
there is a big game here
        we are playing or being played

atrocities later
        we examine our soles to see what blood we might be

impale this sand with our lies
        claiming it for anachronism
erect a previous century on the bones left by our subtraction problem
repeat it until they believe it
        over until finally it has faded away like the smell of hum
        our remorse
        our engines
        all inextricable
a concentration of fear
these minds will never know school
        having seen these wonders
blood fertilizing the dead sand
or dead dirt rising through osmosis to clot our blood to gravel
hypocrisy is a skyscraper
        also godlike in its stunning ambivalence to its own directives
language has come unraveled see
so the starburned retina is a vomit of images
        a flow of nonsense

we have stripes
        stars stuck in the helmet liners
a coughdrop or lozenge in a royal palace now humming with the light of Pepsi machines
let those slackluster compatriots drop like ice cream cones onto a mezzanine littered without purpose
        because this my diety is ready

uranium shell breakfast debutante
let him in on a glimpse of spectacularly bad juju
break in that face so full of fresh flies
overturned market
        vegetable stands
the only truths behind your eyelids when you no longer know you're dying

into that space you go
a gloom of cold

Newspoetry at Spineless Books