poems for tribes
We are in and of a class bordering
The lowest of the middle
The highest of the low
A town resting upon the peak
Of a lighted hill,
Lit by the rockets and missiles that
Bombard the valleys below.
Eliot is right,
“We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind on dry grass
Or rat’s feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar…
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.”
Yet for these of you that heard your last bang, I say
Our light shines quite warmly.
From here…
Light sprouting from their approximate
Points on the horizon
Showering the Hades below, the plagued
Dangerous and incredible matter of their custom.
Bound by warlord and the gravity of bullets
We’re all tied to each other’s misery
And let’s not forget also to each other’s peace.
A confused parallel surrounding our exterior, peace and satisfaction.
Walls of these houses are no longer frozen, but
Torn down and humiliated
Fractured and playfully run into the ground.
People are not toys, pawns, or shields of power.
They are soldiers, precious and valuable,
Necessary to the state and its losses.
Commoditized in whirlingly frantic moments of pressure, and
Praised when they suit the image of flowers
A garden of muses and infantry.
Babies born of black and helmets on the inside
Of their skulls, to keep their wills safe from other
Adventures of quixotism and calm.
Enjoy the solace and sadness of your garden,
While we alight in it the glory of your
Buffoonery and docile wit.
We are in and of a class that shakes
Darwinism from our sociology,
Celebrates difference, applauds choice,
Determination and leisure…
We will never rise to such positions of authority,
However, to cure this commerce of life.
We’re to smirk at our advantages and toy with those
Skills that make our existence known to others.
The night draws nearer, and only
Light from the window and valley below
Illuminates the page enough to ridicule its puzzle.
You hear me. I know you do.
For we have walked this valley before,
And I swear your memory remains vivid.
I trust you like a child; and fame exists
Nowhere in here, so our bond is our blood.
Not of type or romance, but simply of blood,
Blood that slows the salmon in our streams,
Yet gives them a footing to climb to the top,
Procreate, dissolve, wither and last Forever.
We are in and of a class, bordering
The lowest of the middle
The highest of the low,
A town resting upon the peak of a lighted hill,
Lit by the rockets and missiles
Bombarding the valleys below…
