Email Poem

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Personal Note:

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Poem

I.

Rain beats down on the smoky beach,
all paths the gull flies, and in his
resistance.
A thousand white shells in the mist
are seasoned with stinging pepper.
You reconsider
signs, velocities of strummed winds;
of which sand dunes, waves bound, would have 
you become king,
had you not surrendered to ask?
The speakers know about this thing.
Through the windshield bodes a dark church.
Men have come in suits not to search.

II.

1st is 3rd street; 4th is Main street.
We sit like naked apes
and call upon our fake names
in a nameless world where we meet.
Slightly wave to the guard 
at the gate, lush gardens and palms,
carried in songs,
any road has glass shards.
Shiny ravens squawking hard,
the flat morning. Traffic eye.

III.

Conspiratorial circles
over bland coffee, cigarettes, dull
wits, and a drunkard's revolution.
Sparrows hop, pick crumbs of muffins.
A clock faces a mirror's lull.
Presidential debate
on TV is like something to mull.
They say there is a solution,
sort of a truth-be-told.
And when I notice her, I misread her,
absent of me, what does war matter?
What do I care about human bombs?
Sand camouflage, countries' elephants,
Abraham and Cain and Able?
But I turn my head, shoot more bull.
Top the hill, at the broken tombs,
as kids we had no resistance.

IV.

Insufficient data coming
through, through the speakers a call,
Father is Son, Son is Father.
Turn around to watch free seagulls
in the mist above; they are becoming,
three of us on one sheet cumming.
Turn around, one bombed another.
And the whimsical cat meows.

I no longer read the papers now.
The news crowds like the Japanese
in Tokyo, when they sing Karaoke
and buy the latest game for Wii.

But you, my brother, send messages
about what you have heard, done, and seen.
Then life is as gentle as can be.

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