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Friday, September 3, 2010

Iris


O Mississippi, urethra of the American beast
I remember your low-lying turbid simplicity

like the moments before and after
car accidents that could have been avoided.
There are things we know
that we do not know. For real.

Everything is recorded nothing is found.
Words are spoken silence is heard.
Money is gathered money taken.
Arrests are committed. Death is awarded.
Numbers are given. Questions are questioned.
Silence is heard. Predictions are made.
Nothing has changed.
Dead dogs drift to their masters
dissolving in bayou/industrial/bathwater/chyme
as the sea eclipses the sun
and the night skies throb 
of helicopter landing lights
endless useless
endless useless.
Wake up again.
What a life on the balcony—
gothic trees uprooted in blue light and contraflow.
Not my tragedy but, in the midst of it
no camera, no healer
East Coast guy scared by the pool
I saw the momentum of misery 
and turned away stray Christians 
who’d wander in to pray 
the monster moves on
to people praying
the monster moves on
like women and their cancers
pray together
with southwestern stares
through black steel bridges
on the Argosy riverboat
wondering Who do I know
in Houston
Topeka Chicago
and all anyone can do is pray
for masses moving through the complex
like a giant human hand
shouting Fuck the Quarter! 
I don’t know what I’m gonna do
but I’ve gotta get some ice!
My family has drowned.

The mayor says Sewage Snakes Sharks
Sharks with Guns Rape in the Streets
40,000 Deadbodies, Dead Dogs, and the Darkness
We’re All Fucked Thank God for the Army
for the helicopters over
Baton Rouge tonight
Baton Rouge tonight
Baton Rouge tonight
pulsing wound on fire with emergency
arming itself at the WalMart
closing down its windows
opening its doors
aiming at the road.
Don’t panic—dogs everywhere—
the sky chrome as the holding tanks
next to the cosmar facility, feral dogs
spilling fu manchus of drool
over intersections of concrete and dead grass.
The president has spoken. He may even help.

A billboard still stands: You Need A Reason to Smile. Louisiana.
The Lottery.

The numbers/of millions
are spoken since I came.
Where am I? Why am I
behaving badly?
Shall I not
speak my own language?
have my own holidays
and isn’t that why
I came here to start?
Was I not a stray Christian
once wandering?
Am I not here in search of glory
and hurt enough to show it?
Man I’m really freaking out today.
And there’s no way to stop one’s train.
Goddamn this gumbo is almost good enough to stay.

I need a reason to smile
beyond biscuits and gravy

ever since I realized
America
is a miscommunication
and the result
is a crying shame
I cannot fix without leaving
the wreckage and illusions
I am lucky enough to call
someone else’s piece
here at the end of the Mississippi—
please don’t think I didn’t love you.

But Jesus Christ come on.