OCCULT IRAQ
They burned the place block by block buzzed the kids
not watching television to turn their lymph to acids
the flesh would be delicious if you could put your head
on backwards then the mouth and teeth would switch
positions like a rich man walking from a dead heat
through the eye of a camel and dealing needles, just right
of center see for yourself the hanging gardens of Lala land-
mines panning for cameras under a red crescent the radios
were hawked in the hospital without walls, air conditioning
optional. Remember we learned the hard way but what was
groped for the general good times of the few and far
between the lines of high mass media well intentioned
hung together minus real hooks or even without glue
Look, the Arabian stallions were chop shopped for dog food.
The real scoop, the absolutely hidden agenda happens
to be the search for Babylonian artifacts under the Persian
rug no one was actually swimming in sand dollars but
the looting, the war itself was designed as if by Old Navy
to crook a peck a gross at most of ancient talismans, amulets, maybe chunks of a broken frieze, in the spin.
Beings of smokeless fire, a crack voice out of the whirlwind
warped the petty civil servants sucking up the Apocalyptic
shtick that paid the bills especially petroleum jelly futures
getting the Willies and the Indiana Jonesing after the fact
who could make heads or tails out of a pact with the devil
how much could the people stand in line where they stood
the MOVE bombing on Osage called the shots for 911 good
for beeswax went through the roof burning the red black
flag of truth, honey, baby I only want you to believe one
white lie. America this is your conscience speaking
Remember me for a Caravel along
the Interstate where station wagons ghost
and tripped the weathered seasons from coast
to coast once satellites overlooked
dreams of television and transistor radio instead
Of spied for some gray men in black tie and spats America this is your conscience speaking, the bubble
in your level head and chips and dip, America
the voice dying off in the sirens, I am the poet
in your side, your advocate, your jinxed soldier shot
as soon as he tripped off the helicopter gun ship
lollipop by Poncho Villa in black pajamas This is your
conscience sprechen sie dutch chocolate double dipped
with jimmies in the car pool forgetmenot, cut loose
like a mongrel in the spit shine of summary lawns
barking up the wrong tree maybe
but my howl is still your wild frontier, your
unleashed anthem, issue of your loins
Remember me long and hard who cupped
factory broken hands breast formulae to your Big Gulp.
I don’t mean anything by it
but does it make sense
The best poet in the America
isn’t me when I’m sober,
it’s you, you and only if you listen up.
The best poem in America
is absolutely useless
like a good hammer or
miter saw would be
for picking flowers or smell- the- coffee.
Young Marines (“not on their
side but on our side” at least
get a medal or a metal plate in
the cranium and the checks’ in
the mail just like an artist only if he’s dead.
I face you clearly I can hear you too
I care for your children though first
before you stands more than double
hypotenuse
this place from what is the source on
up shooting out of the ground wire
who would forgive must first transgress
blow by blow I won’t ever confess
but let you have the low down if you ask
your immediate response takes the cake
knee jerk reflex, impulse abandons us
look around you see the results in spades
belief and dogma cut off at the pass
who holds to the bottom line distrust
and spins a yarn to what end
half bull half man all appetite
this dimension is closing fast
no chance to rescue let alone the rest
I am done with playing with you who
no kindness registers nor reason tweaks.
The reactionary will be terrorized
afraid of its own shadow
backsliding will be limited to one turn
deserves another three ringed circus.
Slow to respond in kind but quick to
react when all the table setting’s
pewter and the brain is cooked well done
in view of a world gone mad with blood.
What is power no one can say instead
they mistake force for that
confusing night and day relieving quilt
with cruelty when they can get their way.
Power is where power’s from
mightier than the atomic bomb
that that bends the physical law and bottom
line back into the flames from which they come.
The reactionary will be terrorized
not knowing sin is its own
punishment, not caring for his neighbors’
plight, making Lite and dumbing down
by handing over the keys to crowns
while the wisdom of the sages dumped
out back to makes way for a vacuum pump
every last drop out of the working stiff‘s stuff,
America, one of many who won’t be home tonight.
Broadway and 116th Street, Manhattan. 4.18.06
© 2006 FDW (frank walsh)/Jacksonville,Philly
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