Category: Politics & Activism

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this changes nothing

you know that, don’t you?
in a few days we’ll go back to our coma
back to our flat-screen televisions
our high-definition getaways
six people? nowhere near enough
at this point, we’d need rivers of blood
flowing past the grocery store
submerging the church pews
to even catch our attention for more
than a 24-hour news cycle
for shock value I could start listing
the daily death tolls
of those without health care
or the number of children who go to bed
hungry or abused each night
right here, in the richest…
but you know the story
or choose not to know it
for less shock value
(because who really cares about them?)
I could tell you how many civilians
were killed today in Iraq or Afghanistan
or Gaza or Pakistan or Yemen
by us or by our allies or with our weapons
but what’s the use?
a new season of your favorite show
will start soon and you’ll plop down
on your couch with some popcorn
or a nice plate of nachos
and go back to sleep
in a few weeks you’ll have to
Google this date to figure out
what this poem is about
and in another few weeks after that
so will I

Listen to this poem using the player above.

This is poem #28 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write a “what really happened” poem. This poem is about the Villawood Immigration Detention Centre near Sidney, Australia. What happens there is horrifying. I learned about it through the work of Dan Burke (twitter.com/proudreader) via his appearances on the indispensable Citizen Radio.

Villawood

We told them to come and it would be safe.
They were running away. Escaping.
We were a return trip, back across the Styx
toward the stairway that leads to the living.
By the thousands they came. Pleading.
It’s just over this way, we said, through this gate.
And we shut it behind them, locked them in.
Of all people to imprison refugees, doing it here
has a special irony. Here in a land born in prison.
On ground we stole from an ancient people.
Our blood baptism brought forth a new religion.
And now we sacrifice their children — refugee
children — on the altar of our merciless god.
In truth, we’re grateful when they sew
their mouths shut, because their screams
pierce the night and steal from us our dreams
of beer and song and beautiful women.
And when they hang themselves or jump
they spare us the expense of the slow death
we were always planning to give them.
There is a boat across the Styx, and a staircase.
And at the top of the stairs, a gate.
Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.
And welcome to Villawood.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

This is poem #27 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. It’s almost over. Today’s prompt was to write a “blame the (blank)” poem. It’s quite possible this poem was impacted by how I spent most of my afternoon.

blame the brown people

for standing under all those bombs we dropped
getting themselves killed
didn’t they know enough to get out of the way?

sure, the cluster munitions and the food packets
were the same basic color and shape
but Jesus-H-Christ-on-a-crutch
how goddamned stupid are those Afghan and Iraqi kids?

I think they mostly hate us ’cause we’re right about everything
that would annoy anyone
don’t you remember the brainiac in high school
who you just wanted to punch until he went down
and stayed down?

Anyway, I think the next thing we ought to drop over there
is a picture of a bomb that says DON’T STAND UNDER THIS

Fuckin’ A right. Praise Jesus. Amen.

Listen to this poem using the player above.

This is poem #22 for the November Poem-A-Day challenge. Today’s prompt was to write a poem that takes a stand. As is often the case, this poem takes a stand … and a left turn into weird territory.

Protest

I am holding a sign, it says:
DON’T KISS HIM!
in block letters.
I wrote it last night, overcome
by righteous indignation.
I stand before you,
brothers and sisters,
as a man without a country.
A wanderer in the pale lands.
I have an expired passport —
the picture is an x-ray of my chest
with an arrow pointing to the middle
and the words “You Are Here”
in friendly red letters.
I will chain myself
to the gate of her house
while the bulldozers approach,
bent on my removal.
Brothers and sisters,
I will not waver in this struggle,
though history and time and
a thousand sharp words
cut me to the quick.
I have a dream that is becoming a nightmare.
This sign and these words are my gift to all of you.
Remember me.