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Paradoxy | Iraq Villanelle | Shadows | Tossed Life
The oceans burn, and all along the shore,
seabirds scream a dirge and dance;
their footsteps cuneiform the myth
that we're unfolding: greasy, black, indelible ––
an ulcerous tale that drills itself through veins
and whines in sleepless ears.
We've conquered Night and lost the stars ––
our legions dream prescripted anthrax fears
and feast on pesticidal soup. There are warning signs
on mother's milk, and what we spurn we
ship to trusting countries lacking legal sharks.
"I'll sue, I'll sue, and bankrupt you."
American refrain.
All Hail the Kingdom of McDream,
where love and all its variations carry
trademarks and the franchise rights!
Our bodies teem with logos, our streets
with signs like gadflies plague our sight.
Incessant tunes drill slogans in our heads. We're
not consumers but consumptives,
poisoned by extruded needs, sucking Circe's teat.
What pigs.
What's the slogan of your life?
Gotta have a slogan: something easy,
something free (or they won't count you);
free of meaning, free of blame ––
get it trademarked, register your DNA
or they will do it first, and reap the premiums of your life.
All Hail the Fiefdom of McDream where
Armageddon parties crowd Israeli Friday
nights and bookstores list the Dummy's Guide
to Nuclear Collapse (duct tape and plastic).
Oh, dream me up a thousand nights of tales
to lull the masses: how big–spurred men so bravely
stole the reins from frankly puzzled partisans
and over-rode supreme.
In Emerald City, all must wear eyeglasses
tinted green. Vote carefully, you'll want
someone to blame. (And those who think that they
have shelter do not understand the nature of the storm.)
We watch with moral rigor mortis as Somalis
starve on primetime ("Hey, is this 'Survivor'?
Dude, how young they look!")
and couples parlay marriage-baiting
into millions. While we look on.
The specters of a thousand histories
cry unheard and fade in laser's glare.
Almighty Now has swept all archetypes
beneath the steal–slick surface
built to frame our thoughts, while D.C.
brews a jabberwock of reasons
for impending war, their weaponry of
mass presumption ranged to blast
opposing views to ash(croft). Wouldst thou protest?
Your soundbite's like a flea
in Titan's ear. Get thee to a gunnery.
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I think that Bush and Cheney understand,
despite their parochial, privileged lives,
the total candor that true peace demands.
They didn't find the weapons, as was planned;
now rumors are that underlings connived,
but don't doubt that Bush and Cheney understand.
Our mop–up army (daily ambushed) and
Iraqi townsfolk need –– to stay alive ––
the total candor that true peace demands.
Afghan's still in shambles, and the Holy land's
aflame with harsh, pre –emptive drives
that I think Bush and Cheney understand.
Yet partial fact, Code Yellows carefully planned
are what they give us; does this seem contrived ––
this "total candor" they know we demand?
Are we too numb? Or don't we understand:
of all the noble reasons, none survived
the total candor that true peace demands.
Oh, I think Bush and Cheney understand!
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The old men cast their shadows on the street.
In faded parkas, dazed by sun or gin,
they wear cast–off Nikes, large upon their feet.
Who knows if they are fakes or genuine?
The homeless, nameless men who line the curbs,
they hold their signs like tattered mannequins.
Their numbers swell, their desperate pleas reverb –
"A dollar for a bite of food",
"Will work", "God bless" – it reaches to disturb
our concentration, deftly spoil our mood –
Dare we give, or will our gift be spent
for a pint of Henry's or homebrewed?
Is it tough love or abandonment
to leave them tasting only their defeat?
How will we answer to the indigent?
And so we grapple: greed and/or deceit?
The old men cast our shadows on the street.
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Somewhere in that file
behind the lab reports and charts,
is the teen whose youth
was tossed like rotted gutter fruit,
and passed like bad news
down a gauntlet of kin;
who knows that solemn faces
will condemn him to blank walls
and voiceless days;
a child whose heart broke
long before his voice, whose
hope hangs shredded
like his jeans.
Can you find the page?
A palimpsest beneath the five–point list
of all his twists and flaws,
a brief description of the soul he was
and might have been –– no, it's gone.
This one small fruit, plucked and tossed,
is one of thousands ––
the stinking piles mount,
as America leaves its young
on the golden altars of greed.
Disposable like so much else,
he knows he'll be tossed ––
when hasn't he been tossed?
What hope his small life
in the grinding progress machine?
Our do-good machines
are oiled by the pulped lives
of our victims.
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AUTHOR NOTES:
Catherine McGuire has been writing and publishing poetry for several decades. She is a member of the Oregon State Poetry Association and is currently serving on its board. Her work as a therapist and her peace activism has informed many of her poems.
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