Shanghai Mirrors – or why I cannot write

I am that coffee cannister
with no coffee left in it

The wound is too deep for salt
and I find metaphor an embarrassment
while truth is circling the globe
on a treadmill in a basement
biting its nails –

There aren’t enough nails
for the coffins
of those bearing true witness
and the oblique speech of poetry
falls like a broken arrow
at the base of a sequoia

The nightingale lies red-breasted
bleeding from the heart
on a smoke-filled field amidst rocks and tin cans

Everywhere, shivering crowds pledge allegiance
to the virtual flag of the state of fear

Learn, children of the prophets
learn to treat every promise as a lie
Learn to treat death as the end of all self
Believe that when you die, you die.
and your courage shall be your salvation
your release from the anxiety
of knowing what you do not care to know.
Stand Pascal on his head
to save the world from dread.

Poor Jesus now carries Zionism on his back.
Dear flagellated Atlas,
there are no jews in Israel
only colonizers, settlers
disrespectfully unsettling
down to the bones of genuine semites

There is no sin, save ignorance
and words are our only weapons

Hatred of the hateful is no victory
Love is out of reach –
at least we might muster pity

Would that I could sail away
from this degenerate world
in the hollow of my own heart

.

.

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