Monday, May 23, 2016



In the swift days of my life,
the feet of the beast
described by Daniel in his Book,
500 years and they still failed
to set iron and miry clay,
but the sword with which they imposed
the siege had plunged the homeland
into misery. Not much ever happened,
Amen! to business, the beautiful
alliterations of brokerages. 170, 000 beheaded.
Life in the country was commendable,
anyone could carry a flag and brandish stories.

Getting into the economic brutality of kings
and Orthodox Jews took into account
a healthy economy,
at least that’s what the papers said,
so life in the pipe-dream-country
started at 6am with breakfast,
take the kids to school, then keep
your buttocks behind a desk,
behind a wrench, behind a broom,
behind oneself, to honor the hours
that would allow the boss to have
his piña colada anywhere he had a world.

Now the auxiliary realm of greed
broadcasted live
strange numerals 
as if panic could only get tangled
in a soccer ball— what a GOAL…
It made the soccer player’s super-fuck their mothers
in front of an iridescent crowd,
and papa Noah took off a young girl’s panties
he was filming.  He was going to leave good money
in the porn outlets.

Ah, Rebeca Linares’s nostalgic ass
on all fours
stuffing a huge black dick in her butt,
and songs that seemed like the best
sung by the Rolling Stones.
56,000 women torched,
as if they had been welded
to death with argon gas,
but they were walking side by side
with the head honchos of the opium fields
of Afghanistan, the oil fields of Iraq,
the unused and unusual fields of Mars
put in the sky to be reforested.
Those were not days of grief and nostalgia
under radioactive clouds.

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