I Sing The Modern Man

I sing the modern man-
the omnipotent impotent
the divine helot
the jury of lepers falling apart at the seams
the product of revolution
the interpreter of night
the snake in the garden whispering of dreams
O sayers of truth and half-truth lies
I sing, I sing

I sing the modern man-
the exiled puppet throne
in the towers above the smog
who sighs of distant keeps grown frail in the flight
pretenders of the thought
deniers of the sun
caught naked in the beds of foreign paramours
O criers of the universal theme
I sing, I sing

I sing the modern man-
the noble cannibal
the trader of light
lying dead in the midst of a golden fount
the sadistic melancholy
the cry sublime
growing stale in the terrorist dawn
O preachers of the aimless soul
I sing, I sing

I sing the modern man-
grown ragged in the dust
singing the tired lament
packed in the trains as the sky falls
stoned by their ideals
razed by the goal
and falling off the craters of Nagasaki
O poets of the Hiroshima song
I sing, I sing

I sing the modern man-
the end is upon us
alone as winter falls
trudging through the fields of Chernobyl and Kashmir
floundering in the wind
that casts due doubt
the troubles rolling by at the bottom of the screen
O pariahs of the lost age
I sing, I sing

O seekers of the forgotten hope
I sing, I sing.

(May 2012)

And the cowardly lot

And the cowardly lot
that hid behind their masks
of bureaucratic anonymity watched
as the radicals came
and toppled their dead marble knights and
tablets with names which the
wind had erased centuries before, and
under the red crescent moon
(for the smoke has tinting character)
erected a new altar to the old gods and out of
the midnight black,
a shriek came,
and it is unclear from which earth-crack
it did seethe forth
and whether
it was of pain
or the deepest vision of
a long dead pleasure.

this morning

this morning,
as I tied my shoe
on the step of my front porch,
a bomb
hidden in the boot
of an automobile
designed in Japan
and built in Shanghai
went off in a crowded bazaar
in the old part of Baghdad

and though 6,000 miles or so
past the rising sun
I felt it hit my feet
and ripple through my thighs
and for a brief moment
unnoticed by the lonely commuters
passing by my door,
the horizon
was set ablaze.

black rain

black rain
falling from the sky
I watch it drift by
down flattened boulevards
and dying stockyards

black rain
paints the bare land
where once a city stood
a mass of brick and wood
all gone

and they came
and wiped away
all I hold dear
shadows on concrete
I fear
what am I still
doing here?

black rain
the war is over
I guess now all is calm
no more bombs
to cause

black rain
black rain
black rain



Lounging in the serene
radiation of a lonely star,
I stretch out my
lizard limbs
and throw away
the chronicle of some
beat madman I had
been reading.

My mind, scarred by
that junkie’s rants,
wanders blindly, looking
for a point
a reason
a thought

But soon
the star is gone
and the chill creeps
back in, curling up
on my lap and licking
its paws.

Like a junkie out of
dope, I shiver alone
waiting for the return,
pleading for warmth.

And when it comes
my mind fades and
I realize all this
is just a passing observation.