Innocents of All
Let's retro walk decades to the sun
dried affiches—its thick finger at us—
calling up: we want you. When wars began
in guttural tongues and used to wait.
It seems we've been trusting for so long
in posters—since the antennae, now pixels—
We-want-yous in circular ritual
a scheme of half-naked excuses
strings pulled to upset puppets
who run to slap bumper stickers
who, hand over heart, shake pom-poms or flags
innocents of all. We seal clap while swallow
blurred chimeras, opportune abysses
abstract words circling up above our minds
in continence. We lie
down on concentric lies,
stretch our legs, pretend freedom, and live the same
day twice. Inside us: trapped in our flesh,
implanted wars distend, throb, march on
for the salt, for the sand, for the sake
of our Asian fetich. How many sequels?
Those masks we wore weren't ours.
I think I saw a pregnant nun—in her habit
of exhorting us
as voters, tax-payers, heroes. No matter
what our side has been picked for us.
Above ground, we belong below. Buried
beneath our uncritical support.
from desks—behind them—cyclically reinvented.
Unocal, Enron, Halliburton wars.
I won't feel less terrorized.
Who would? Would you?
Defined by corners
rooms adjoin rooms of chronic echoes
Sons return as heroes
in complimentary caskets—as crude
as it may sound—parts of them never do; or
split in halves, lost somewhere in between,
longing to be rescued—somehow.
I walk still
tangled in strings and stripes
I walk staring straight—into someday.
I Double Entendre
Copyright © Ruben O.