(inspired by the WTC disaster)
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yes,
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us people are just poems
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we're 90% metaphor
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with a leanness of meaning
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approaching hyper-distillation
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and once upon a time
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we were moonshine
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rushing down the throat of a giraffe
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yes, rushing down the long hallway
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despite what the p.a. announcement says
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yes, rushing down the long stairs
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with the whiskey of eternity
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fermented and distilled
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to eighteen minutes
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burning down our throats
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down the hall
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down the stairs
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in a building so tall
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that it will always be there
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yes, it's part of a pair
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there on the bow of Noah's ark
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the most prestigious couple
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just kickin back parked
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against a perfectly blue sky
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on a morning beatific
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in its Indian summer breeze
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on the day that America
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fell to its knees
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after strutting around for a century
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without saying thank you
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or please
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and the shock was subsonic
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and the smoke was deafening
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between the setup and the punch line
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cuz we were all on time for work that day
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we all boarded that plane for it to fly
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and then while the fires were raging
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we all climbed up on the windowsill
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and then we all held hands
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and jumped into the sky
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and every borough looked up when it heard the first blast
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and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed
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and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar
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looked more like war than anything I've seen so far
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so far
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so far
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so fierce and ingenious
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a poetic specter so far gone
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that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling
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over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable' and on and on
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and I'll tell you what, while we're at it
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you can keep the pentagon
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keep the propaganda
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keep each and every TV
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that's been trying to convince me
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to participate
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in some prep school punk's plan to perpetuate retribution
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perpetuate retribution
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even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution
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is still hanging in the air
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and there's ash on our shoes
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and there's ash in our hair
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and there's a fine silt on every mantle
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from hell's kitchen to Brooklyn
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and the streets are full of stories
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sudden twists and near misses
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and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters
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with tales of narrowly averted disasters
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and the whiskey is flowin
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like never before
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as all over the country
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folks just shake their heads
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and pour
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so here's a toast to all the folks who live in Palestine
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Afghanistan
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Iraq
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El Salvador
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here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation
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under the stone cold gaze of mt. Rushmore
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here's a toast to all those nurses and doctors
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who daily provide women with a choice
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who stand down a threat the size of Oklahoma City
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just to listen to a young woman's voice
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here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now
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awaiting the executioner's guillotine
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who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads
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to find peace in the form of a dream
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cuz take away our playstations
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and we are a third world nation
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under the thumb of some blue blood royal son
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who stole the oval office and that phony election
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I mean
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it don't take a weatherman
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to look around and see the weather
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Jeb said he'd deliver Florida, folks
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and boy did he ever
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and we hold these truths to be self evident:
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#1 George W. Bush is not president
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#2 America is not a true democracy
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#3 the media is not fooling me
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cuz I am a poem heeding hyper-distillation
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I've got no room for a lie so verbose
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I'm looking out over my whole human family
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and I'm raising my glass in a toast
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here's to our last drink of fossil fuels
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let us vow to get off of this sauce
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shoo away the swarms of commuter planes
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and find that train ticket we lost
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cuz once upon a time the line followed the river
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and peeked into all the backyards
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and the laundry was waving
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the graffiti was teasing us
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from brick walls and bridges
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we were rolling over ridges
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through valleys
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under stars
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I dream of touring like Duke Ellington
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in my own railroad car
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| I dream of waiting on the |
