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Poem

A nation dies
when its ideas become slogans
nothing is deeply planted
or cultivated
just notions to be scattered around
as exposed hayseeds
that fly directionless.

When a state is oppressed
the collective impulse
is to oppress another country.
Wars are never fought
over an ideal.
In the staggered march of time
dead men become 
the enemy.

Minds die
they become buried in the deaf flesh,
become as thin as the bones
of extinct songbirds.

The dead consider themselves
the finest examples of a new reality,
an existence that is the loudest shout
in the widest open mouth.

Dead letters, dead opinions,
dead ends
travel in circles together
until the land forgets its roots
becomes a basement for the sky
a place that is ingrown
like a toenail
pushed into the white tissue
of all such unkept deathbeds.

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