Twice

 

Infrangible infrasound is felt

but rarely explained

 

The dead thing inside is

a worm of hell, at least

that is what I have been told

twice now by mother, dear brother.

 

I am writing to inform

that there is no clarity.

I can offer excuses.

 

People eat up change,

then they burp it off,

wave their hands up,

grumble indigestion.

 

The civilized want gold coins.

They are ravenous

bears in a kitchen of nickels. 

Oh, fool. It is you

that needs the change

 

 

Why are you at war? When will you end? 

I tossed out your Joes and trucks.

I put four leaf clovers in their place.

 

You should be with your Kenyan wife,

making babies, lots of beautiful tan babies.

you should be her breast, not the blade of a machine.

 

you say, yes to this, you walk on leave and smile at sun

and green valley’s, but brother, you go back to war.

Is it similar to crack, to an heron addiction,

to the gag and sway of cigarette smoke?

 

There is a lion, who considers himself a human,

he says in a poem, what kept him

alive as a child, killed him as an adult.  Is this your problem?

 

If so, I can’t understand.

Each day I mediate on

humanity, on gaining sanity.

 

The process has not allowed me to fit in. 

Other’s scuff at my thin

attempts at lining up and waiting.

 

There is no turn for you, brother.  

The world stands still and angry.

The universe conspires to put you in war.

I, it conspires to put in paper. 

What shall we do with war and paper?

 

The post office will not allow me to send the scotch.

So I send water and call it unconditional. 

Perhaps there’s a thing that you will need

that is clean and not sticky.  Blood is a hard washout.

 

What will you tell your inner eight year old boy? 

Will you allow him to time travel with you

back to concrete details of your boredom fear,

your stuffed loneliness and the loss of

war, the lack of a victory flag?

 

This is not meant to hurt you.

Make sense of this and tell me how.