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
The radioactive children of Daesh are very orphaned and
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.
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.