New World Order

I turn to TV,
From the prospering tragedies in the papers,
The place is filled with hot deals and cold obituaries.
But on air,
There’s the new world order cooking under our noses,
It is such a beautiful thing,
The accuracy of it brings tears.

The hydra-headed America studies hard to bow before a
Machiavellian China, the newswoman prophesies have come.
Russia giggles at the table of the final supper,
surrounded by playmates and cooling nozzles.

Nigeria, not the Cape Town,
Submits her plush Niger plunders,
Legs spread apart,
to save her last kitchen from a native bushfire.
And the African empire was buried yesterday
with the head of the mother hen,
This I saw coming.

The shop-keeper Igbos have been hunted out to the hills
like diseased dogs.
It’s a shanty town now, the place we called Igboland.
The corridors in which the ancestors made sweet love and
cooked up some martial soul ditties,
They echo now.

The Israeli Jews have gone deaf too, as usual.
And the State of Palestine is a loud irritant still,
The women clap louder,
The men cough up phlegm,
The children run amok.
And the rest of the village kids throw stones at a
one-legged witch.

The radioactive children of Daesh are very orphaned and
infectious now,
Biting into healthy ovaries for sport,
Starting wild fires,
Vomiting some magic.

B.H Asaad has written a powerful NYT bestseller.
Still rivers are spewing floating fish and watery Syrians.
Iran was not joking after all, they did it.
I hear the rest of the Middle East is a hot rubble landscape of
broken walls and empty shoes.
But over the hill of walls, one final flag lasts,
with a smiling moon on its face,
dancing in the wind,
all else lay dead or waiting to be written about.

Kiribati and the Solomon Islands have drowned,
And in their stead, wars and rumors of grander wars abound.
They finally turned off terrestrial borders,
We now procure bread and salt with a singular currency,
in that single file.

We declare in the one Babylonian voice of sufferers past,
The same things they said, we now say well.
And the price of grain alcohol has risen,
Till we find killer deputies,
And sweet crude dampened the dead scab riverbeds of Sudan,
And passports litter the embassy walls,
And banks will not say why the windows are black.

Muslims turn short-term Christians, and these likes
turn into permanent Gentiles,
Killing god with the stink eye and with silent treatments.
And barcodes glisten behind censored skulls,
Hispanic tongues are rampant.

Where are they now?
The Kurds, Albinos, Gays,
Jaams, Jews, Osus,
Palestinians, Dalits, Blacks,
Catholics, Jonow, Dwarves.
Yazidis, Rohingyans;
Where did they fall into?
They used to bring such heavenly joy,
They used to make us laugh.

We are vital numbers now,
Each person, several cold numerals on a running list.
Ads and guns and PC lingo have made us comatose.

Tomorrow Jesus is coming, I hear,
To finish off his joke,
With a powerful benediction,
He will come in His Sunday best.
And we will once again,
Be the apples of god’s eye.


Gods by the Brush Strokes

Gods by the brush strokes,
Gods on the factory wall,
Gods on a t-shirt,
Colorful august fixations,
Mohammad, Jesus,
Yahweh, Chi, Sól
Buddha, Krishna,
Shiva, Tao, Vino,
Moolah, Jah, Shango
Satan, Pudenda, Helios,
One thing is promised,
We must bow before one or more or half a god.
Unlike the writing of this dawn nonsense,
The best of these men make good memoirs,
Decent poets too,
Very lively posters,
Good reasons to kill,
Spill blood, break skulls,
Torment womanhood,
Assassinate sinners,
Alienate the sick and needy,
Shame the devil,
Start holy wars,
Burn holy incense,
Sprinkle holy water,
Live well,
Die badly.
Good reasons to do unto others
As we will not ourselves be done,
Welcome to the jungle,
We are gods here too,
And here, god is good,
All the time.

There is Melody in Hell After All

When you first see him,
The large man in front of a focused crowd,
With perfect teeth,
Fists of limestone,
And suspenders that stay put,
You instantly think,
He will never be the type to die for anything powerful,
By anything powerful,
And the steady noise in his corridors,
And the rattle of silverware in his mansion,
Will all be for show.

You think you can be majestic too,
By some special gamble,
That is, if your god was right in the head.
This is a valid dream,
But by design, not many gods are right in the head.

This large man will crack dirty jokes,
Pomade his full hair with a tiny brown comb,
Fund your bitterness, kiss your fat babies,
Adore your fat wife, and force laughs from priests and celebrants.

Hours after he is long gone from the aisles,
His cologne will hang in there like
an invisible killer gas, an omen,
Reminding of his presence,
Reminding of your supreme lack.

Go home you wharf rat,
It will say,
Get naked in toto,
Fight with your fat wife,
Go on your knees in the thick dark,
Light a little red candle or two.
Weep bitter tears of basalt,
And pray in kosher English,
With your heads bowed to this once sacred earth.
With bleeding wrists,
Evoke the buttons and bones of your drying ancestors,
Sing a battle cry, listen to the drums tremble,
Smell the greatness coming from the cold North.

You will awake tomorrow, alive, poetic.
Bright and early,
You will look in the plate mirror,
Your large nostrils are become perfected,
You shave without event,
Your fat wife floats intoxicated,
Your coffee is accurate,
And a pretty young thing on the train,
Smiles softly in your general direction.
The sun will be ripe,
Omens in the air,
There is melody in hell after all,
You clear you throat,
Dust your shoes.

Still, as soon as you enter,
You smell it —
The fragrance of the man who will never die for anything powerful,
By anything powerful.
And in his stone hands,
Your destiny lies,
Passing away.

He is the god you will forever know,
He is the god you should have prayed to.
Hank, like most sensible men,
Go pray some more.

Morgue Attendant

I met a poet today,
You can tell it was a party.
On fire,
She smelled of fog and flowers,
Her first line, a dead giveaway,
Something about the communistas and the Sicilian Syndicate,
Too many feral sons never taken to a punch from their old man,
She mined a ricochet bullet from the gut of her informant, says she.
Survived the black plague, swears she.
And knew by night sweat the screamer of a man disunited from his penis,
She talked up a storm,
Trying to sell me some vendetta,
All I wanted was to watch plebs scramble in the rain,
And get hit by taxis,
All I wanted was to smell the leather of her injuring strap heel,
All I fancied a dream revived, the kiss on haggard lips of Isabelle Allende and my coup de grâce,
And imagine our Afro-Chilean misbegotten script,
All I wanted was to take her to my tabernacle three floors up,
It was easy to swallow cold coffee there,
To bear the old smells of tree back oils and unripe oranges,
And the blinds stayed ajar to the baker’s mother’s psalmic phalanges.
Easy to inspect a super bent by his old sins to mop the place with more muck,
Than to listen to another rhapsodist,
It never truly ends,
This gospel according to sadists.
She asks what I do to keep from dying,
Morgue Attendant, I tell the lout.
Under a spot light, and atop a pot,
I clean dead black people,
Their families like them cleaned.