Home

Political Poem

Some think Castro is a yahoo and some think
his power comes from his mistakes.
It's a rancorous debate that will influence major officials
or solve throngs of pre-owned opinions.
It's a bit uncomfortable for our bodies -
so ignorant yet so wrapped up -
and for agents embarrassed by the price of intelligence.
But, hell, bigger cost is the "thing."
It's hotter than satellites and educational programs,
and it's going all national.
Isn't increase measured by having babies,
giving thanks? What else is there to look for?
We are here cooking and reading and napping.
It's only the diesel heads who are acting like buggy software
or shoppers cut off from caffeine. I want to call them
jackasses and lazy bastards. But...

Against this backdrop, labor looks like a ditto.
The traffic is directed in whole or in part
into time and space, it's harried partners.
It will crash deadlines and promise July.
Next year, double it.
Hackers will survey thousands, say 27,000,
and the damns will pour liberty like earthworms
squirming out of the first shovel-full at the future's groundbreaking.

But, still, there is some value in trade, and in suffering,
which is a kind of daily justice.
Those of us in the plains want the mountains and the sea,
while everyone on the coasts wants nothing
other than their salt-cured selves.
The implication is that we will probably all
kill each other and everything around us.
It's not getting any cooler.
It's grown past the point of toys
designed to school terrorists.
Not much rises above the system of looking inside.
Everyone's head is their own new government,
and getting out of bed makes me feel like my stomach
is going to pop open and make me reluctant mother,
disowned father, weeping brother and sister-in-flight
to my one-and-only country gone postal.

by Brian Clements