For Those Born to the Sound of Bombs
- Be kind,
Whoever you may be, relieve our trouble,
Tell us under what heaven we’ve come @ last…
-Virgil
Daily routine in the Catskills:
Check the wifi connection.
Duck & dodge The American Beech,
Musclewood & Birch eventually blown down,
Besieged in a barrage of ice & wind.
Electricity comes & goes
& there is a waiting that occurs
That is central to the heart
Of insignificance & distraction.
It is a blanket statement to say:
We are In a flat-out sprint from the city
& the snow of endless television sets,
All of that can find one anywhere now.
The pestilence of information & opinion
Is the first thing I see in the morning
& the last thing thing I see @ night
& though the sky can be multitudinous
Grey or blue In all directions we are beneath
Something more minuscule & sinister.
Look for ticks attached to the skin:
Ballooned & fat w blood siphoned
Quietly in the tiny cave of armpit
Or inner-thigh typically reserved
For lover or caring mother
Who usually find out, eventually, exactly
what is wrong before the scrutinized do.
An affliction parasitic in nature
But truly alive in symbiosis.
Microscopic trouble
balanced on a blade of grass.
@ the risk of sounding banal or trite
I will say this: It is in Love we find out
What we are worth or risking or reaching for
In this godforsaken place where children
Through no fault of their own
Or anything they did
Burst into this world screaming
& their first attempt to connect
Is drowned out by the sound of bombs.
The Endless Ring of War, the blind desire
For gold always ending In dust.
Recently I lost control in my kitchen
During an argument w my wife
& I threw two packages of crackers
To the floor & stomped them to crumbs.
In the aftermath & debris I learned
I could not walk & my right foot,
I thought @ the time, was broken.
It turns out I had damaged the nerves
& was forced to lie on my back for a week.
I lied & told everyone it was a freak accident.
My wife stayed silent & my daughter
Wondered why there were no more crackers.
Some houses are louder than others
& some are just rubble where they used to be.
In the nest I saw a fire & three baby birds
Slid down the tin awning to the hard earth
Hoping they would land safely
Or better yet take to the air & be free.
But the end is exactly what you might think.
I hope you end up somewhere better
Than where you started, I hope it gets better.
Shame on us.