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Diana E. Saenz weep, weep, weep for us the waiter points it out the first explosion the second explosion is released through his lips he ran for his life in the gift shop are paperweights with towers and tee-shirts without the hottest pancakes on the island which do you want, with or without? the days begin with the early morning cool then cough into a sweating crowd the sun touches the ground in anger a large hole is the focus of cameras and tears men, hard hats and boots, or ties small as flies purposefully to and fro' plans are studied wheelbarrows pushed pictures taken balloons sold we stare into the single immense gape worried by attention where carnage once cradled we are swept by its immensity and the hand-grip impact but it is hard to really hurt us and giants, we rise back to our feet from our golden bedspread we scrape out our wound and pray we stare at a big picture their people faces smile out clueless and heroic badges of martyrdom swing from them the earth spins away from our feet dobermans howl for power in the word of justice in sotto voce in laser jingo the planet admonishes us the fauna bellows when we pass spin masters read to us at night A woman sitting alone at the bar with her legs crossed who once touched the abyss with insane eyes and found it quiet enough Amantes Amentes (lat. lovers are lunatics) When I visit that island in safe memory the soubrettes loitering for an hour’s ride leave me to my private counsel. In their glances they know my pensive silhouette against that island’s gloomy tide Where trees, bent crones in lonely stances, ponder centuries within their lifted roots. Up from the earth they spill their core— Witched trees with superstitious arms and muddied boots. It is wisdom one should not explore Having touched that island brute whose solid ground betrayed me. I shiver in remembrance, breathe in this pub and stir my drought I who have seen the earth beneath me quiver, then fall away—not in some retreating dream nor any filmmaker’s latex and jelly thing but in the most wakeful hour of my own too conscious theme. What if I drink to make my victory more convincing amid these whores with tarty sobriquets. That I have beaten a chasm of insanity earns me the right to cross my legs and smoke important cigarettes.
When she walks up to you with a smile on her face you won't even know you're at the right place the room may be noisy so you won’t hear her name it won’t be a movie and it will just the same James where's your girl tonight? Has she been near you all along? and though you cannot see her face she slowly turns in your arms with lips that erase a once cold space James, where's your girl tonight? Is she waiting in the shadow is she tactile or audio? what in the world does she know? will she recognize her future bedfellow? James, where's your girl tonight? Remains the question in your heart when is the day, when will it start? well that is the unrecorded part so be cool be charming be clean and be smart eight officers’ asses variations of hearts on their heads hearts gripping their backs and thighs at attention the furthest officer closest to the regiment salutes the platoon immediately before him salutes the platoons forming boxes of hearts behind them stand fit and tall and stiff at attention awaiting command the officer’s ass holds up the salute poised to command with officers at his rear, command the platoon for the regiment salutes the officer the officers behind the farthest officer stand at attention receive the salute arms glued to their thighs their hearts poised above the farthest officer closest to the platoon salutes for them and off they go to kill old, old not as old as the hills but old young asses facing front upside-down hearts
the driver drives up the hill past a neon of eateries quick served over-salted foods promising heartbreak and heartburn cum reflux he thinks all you can eat schlock and cheese advertising victims locked in fat suits he smiles at his own wit and shifts his bulk his opinions changing so subtly so he hardly notices suddenly he looks away from the radio and mutters jeez that’s not music and remembers his father’s words his bones are warning him his cars are quieter and warm up faster than he hellos at mid morning at least he hasn’t rewritten old antiwar songs to support the latest bombfest, that’s selling out, he thinks and smiles as a nifty fully-loaded heated leather seats job swerves recklessly by the driver’s window is a silent flick of a comical road-rage face cursing past him jeez if only he could have a picture of that it occurs to him he’s mellowed not long ago he would have flipped that oozy-eyed dik-dik a powerful middle finger – ! Plato said the unexamined life is not worth living the driver runs his eye along his job’s sleek ergonomic dashboard efficiency is sexier than he ever thought possible |
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