Monday, March 28, 2011

'Political Poem' by Brian Clements


Some think Castro is a yahoo and some think his power comes from his mistakes. It’s a rancorous debate that will either influence major officials or create throngs of pre-owned opinions, both of which are a bit uncomfortable and hard on our bodies and on 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 representatives 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 is just 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. Thousands will get hacked, their own private stashes of porn bugged, and the firewalls will jump up faster than you can bomb Baghdad.
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 those on the coasts want nothing other than their salt-cured selves. We all want money. 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-, absentee father-, disowned brother-, and weeping sister-in-flight to my one-and-only country gone postal.

(from his book Jargon, Quale Press, 2010)

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