I see them marching on the Washington Monument, Some on crutches, some in wheelchairs, waving Their flags and daring the cops to arrest them,
But the cops are on “paid administrative leave,” And only Japanese tourists with i-phones Snap pictures for the family back home.
This is nothing new. The last time this happened, World War I veterans were demanding their bonuses. Until General MacArthur ordered his troops to fire
On the entrenched encampments around the capital. Compassion never lay at the heart of America, only betrayal, Seeing how much they could get away with without paying.
I would like to write about something else – The cherry blossoms in spring that litter The ground where the unknown are buried,
But I cannot turn away from the news feed On a monitor above the rest home’s cafeteria Where I sit, wondering who will remember me.
[Disposable Poem October 3, 2013] Dr. Mike
* The Books
Moldier than army camouflage, Spread-eagled in the grass they baste, Spines cracked, their tongues all paste and glue, The holy syllables having lost their vowels.
Here in desert camps, on the border Of knowing who they were, homeless children Memorize each page before burning For warmth against the Arab winds.
The only fathers they will ever know, Their only mothers, parables and psalms Declaimed as riddles, key to survival, Returning the word from print to thin air.
A confusion of babble among lost tribes Warp waves of wailing at indifferent dunes, Trying to move the earth to save them From unexpected poison gas attacks.
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I see them marching on the Washington Monument,
Some on crutches, some in wheelchairs, waving
Their flags and daring the cops to arrest them,
But the cops are on “paid administrative leave,”
And only Japanese tourists with i-phones
Snap pictures for the family back home.
This is nothing new. The last time this happened,
World War I veterans were demanding their bonuses.
Until General MacArthur ordered his troops to fire
On the entrenched encampments around the capital.
Compassion never lay at the heart of America, only betrayal,
Seeing how much they could get away with without paying.
I would like to write about something else –
The cherry blossoms in spring that litter
The ground where the unknown are buried,
But I cannot turn away from the news feed
On a monitor above the rest home’s cafeteria
Where I sit, wondering who will remember me.
[Disposable Poem October 3, 2013]
Dr. Mike
*
The Books
Moldier than army camouflage,
Spread-eagled in the grass they baste,
Spines cracked, their tongues all paste and glue,
The holy syllables having lost their vowels.
Here in desert camps, on the border
Of knowing who they were, homeless children
Memorize each page before burning
For warmth against the Arab winds.
The only fathers they will ever know,
Their only mothers, parables and psalms
Declaimed as riddles, key to survival,
Returning the word from print to thin air.
A confusion of babble among lost tribes
Warp waves of wailing at indifferent dunes,
Trying to move the earth to save them
From unexpected poison gas attacks.
[Disposable Poem October 2, 2013]
Dr. Mike
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