Poem #13

Bent on the end of the world without one look…

 
Hear the town crier on the outskirts
of a high, Midwest, Indiana hill…
 
“What cruel curse! Oh, cured assembly,
far-flung daughter, far-flung son,
 
apud great-great Adam,
four ages, from a Messiah,
 
you set your ships on these sandstone shores
in the name of some all father,
 
yet you have forgotten, and as Eve
set her ear to the serpent’s teeth
 
so, too, the children beneath you
listen, listen, to the same snake song,
 
charmed to sin, since the Savior’s end,
yet what’s worse? Women in women, men in men,”
 
and the fathers, and the mothers reply,
“Amen, amen.” They reply without one look.
 
“Genocide to the swords in barren sands,”
and the fathers, and the mothers, reply,
 
“Amen, amen.” They reply without one look.
Yet, where in America,
 
yet, where in her cider waves of grain,
where do you find one steeple
 
centered on the golden rule?
Without one look, the answer is none.
 
So in 15 by two tens, the culture of hypocrites,
the town of sticks, went with slaughter, bombs falling
 
as
if
 
beads
of rain
 
were
broken
 
strings
of beads
 
showering into
sandy seas
 
And so it was that these things were
set to an Arab tune.
 
Crusades are sons. Crusades are daughters.
Two sides on the same coin thrown into the river Lethe.
 
When they meet with Allah or God,
shall they sound the names of our ancestors
 
bent on the end of the world without one look?

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