Fragments

As I take your cold hand in mine,
And stare into the emptiness,
I know that I may never see you again,
Though this is how I will always remember you:
Your long winter coat concealing the body
That never was a mystery to me,
Not even the first time my hand,
Came to rest on your bare hip,
Smooth gray curves in the moonlight;
Your eyes unfocused under knitted brows,
Contemplating not the windswept landscape before us,
But the inner turmoil you keep securely contained,
Behind a meshwork of steel and nerve;
Your voice as you almost sing the words to me,
“We are people who still really feel,
And that is why we are here now;”
Your lips dry and cracked and slightly parted,
As if you were about to speak again,
The words stolen and swept out to sea.

The rest of you is just fragments,
Scenes from another life I probably
Dreamed while sleeping on a train.
The real is inseparable from the desired,
And my future is fraught with imagination.

You release my hand and withdraw
Without a sound; magnets under my skin
Involuntarily pull me toward your mass,
But I anchor my feet and do not turn my head.
I am left with the cry of gulls and the music
Of the internal, eternal struggle of opposites,
Pulling columns down as they wage their war,
Somewhere deep in my frozen, laboring lungs.

My eyes close and I try to remember,
Another time, one I am sure once existed,
Where softness was also a non-tactile feeling
And strength was a word we shared,
But now it is just fragments.

The District

Sleeping under anvils she lies prone,
Curled up with pain as companion,
Feeling the hammer blows pushing her
Further under, sinking into the earth.

I watch and feel the weight press on me from afar.
Why does the world have me riveted here,
While you wish for the peace of death there?
It is a simple, easy answer that
Echoes across the concrete chasms
Of a society that chooses murdering
Children over caring for children.

Less than a mile from where she lies,
Three schools bustle with thousands of students;
Their textbooks leer dumbly, older than their parents,
And the asbestos grins lecherously from within the rotting walls.
Many of these kids will not finish school or go to college.
Many have no doctor for when they are sick.
Some will be murdered and taken to the grave.
Some will be murderers and taken to jail.
Some will be imprisoned for selling drugs.
Some will be beaten for talking back to a cop.
Some will be taken away by an overdose.
Some will be taken away by crossfire.
Some will be taken away by accident.
None are thought of within the halls of power,
Which stand very few miles from where my love lies.

Gleaming marble structures and towering monuments
Take no more heed of our suffering than do
The men and women of power that
Inhabit the maze we call home.
War memorials multiply
Yet none stand here
For the lives that
Were taken by
Greed and
Neglect.

In bed, she shudders and props up the infinite weight of loneliness.
Nearby, a child stumbles uphill, facing a never-ending walk home.
Lost somewhere in the maze, I struggle to swim through drying cement.

The Loudspeaker

The loudspeaker attached to the streetlamp on the corner awakened with a crackle of static and a series of raking, electrically buzzing beeps. One, two, three, four, five, each lasting three and a half seconds. A soft, feminine voice spoke clearly into the empty streets, her voice echoing calmly downwind.

“This information notice is for all citizens of the City of New York and serves to comply with the Proper Accounting Transparency and Recorded Information Act. On the morning of December 4th, two years ago, citizen Robert Baumann, hereafter referred to as citizen Baumann, was identified as an enemy combatant. Upon exiting his apartment building in the Queens borough, citizen Baumann was disabled by an aerial drone and taken into custody by law enforcement agents.

“We would like to take this opportunity to assure all citizens that electrical discharges from aerial drones and law enforcement agents are designed merely to incapacitate a target and pose no health risk to the human organism. Please, do not run if you witness an aerial drone deploying incapacitation rounds in your neighborhood. Flight may lead to an authorized escalation in the level of force to be used in your apprehension. Simply place your hands behind your head, kneel down where you are and wait for a law enforcement agent to give you further instructions.

“Citizen Baumann was conscious and responsive when he arrived for processing and interrogation approximately [beeeeeeeep] later at [beeeeeeeep] facility. National security authorities applied Department of Justice approved enhanced interrogation techniques on citizen Baumann in order to obtain his cooperation in an investigation. These techniques were continued for the next 467 days, as citizen Baumann refused to yield actionable intelligence, but were suspended at that point because a precipitous decline in citizen Baumann’s vital signs were detected.

“After a [beeep] hour recuperation stand-down, clearance was given by medical professionals and the interrogation program was resumed. Eight days after the resumption of the interrogation program, citizen Baumann was found unresponsive in his detention cell at 04:57 am and efforts to revive him were unsuccessful. Citizen Baumann’s body was kept on site pending an autopsy, which later determined his death to be a result of natural causes.

“This morning a National Security Court ruled that the classification of citizen Baumann as an enemy combatant was not correct. Citizen Baumann has been cleared of all suspicion of terrorism and his body is now being returned to his next of kin for burial. The United States government apologizes for this error and assures all citizens that every effort is being made to minimize such classification errors in the future. Remember, safety is everyone’s responsibility.”

With a hiss, followed by a momentary squeal of feedback, the loudspeaker fell silent.

The wind howled around the quiet, gray apartment blocks for fifteen seconds before the loudspeaker awakened again with a crackle of static and a series of raking, electrically buzzing beeps. One, two, three, four, five, each lasting three and a half seconds. A soft, feminine voice spoke clearly into the empty streets, her voice echoing calmly downwind.

“This information notice is for all citizens of the City of New York and serves to comply with the Proper Accounting Transparency and Recorded Information Act. On the morning of March 24th, this year, citizen Clara Bonilla, hereafter referred to as citizen Bonilla, was identified as an enemy combatant and lethal force was used in her apprehension. National security authorities confirmed…”

And the loudspeaker rolled on through the afternoon, into the evening twilight, stopping only for its fifteen-second breaks. When darkness fell, curfew began and speakers all over the city went silent. Silent until tomorrow, when they would rejoin their public duty at dawn, satisfying the citizen’s right to know.

Mada | Adam

Mada and Adam stand under the
Buzzing MTA sign to use the ATM.

Mada looks in the tiny mirror and sees
Adam over her shoulder, his face blank.

Cubby Holes

On my way home,
Waiting for the 42 bus,
Looking over across K Street,
I stared into a massive block of cubic building,
Lit from the inside,
The yellow light broken by black lines
Running up and down, back and forth
Forming squares over its face.
I was reminded of cubby holes,
Like the kind I’d leave my sneakers in,
When I went to go play in the ball pit as a child.
But before me I saw offices,
Much like the one I had just left,
And I was compelled to wonder why
I spend eight, nine, ten, twelve hours a day
Living in a cubby hole;
Wondering if there is a ball pit I could be playing in, instead.

The Knock at the Door

Lisa pins the holly up on the wall in just the right place.
“That’s where Dan would hang it,” she thinks with pride.
January 12th is the magical date;
The day when everything will finally be set right.
She hums as she goes about her work, decorating the house
For the Christmas that is just around the corner.
Less than a month now until everything will be okay.
The radio is playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”
And that is what Lisa is humming, she realizes.
It was unconscious for a while, as she was concentrating
Quite hard on getting the star to stand up straight on the top
Of the Christmas tree, jangling its lights and ornaments.
All the effort is silly of course, as Dan won’t be home for Christmas,
But she’s going to make sure that everything is just perfect.
When he comes back on January 12th,
He’ll see the place lit up like Times Square in celebration
Of his homecoming and return to Lisa’s bed and arms.
They’ll have the holiday together, even if they’re late.

It’s quiet in the house without him, but not for much longer.
He seemed so tired when she talked to him on the webcam
This Wednesday, his face lined and his voice dragging.
But he also sounded so happy; he was ready for it to be over.
He was ready to come home to her, to be done with duty.
“Christmas in Kandahar, babe. I’d rather be with you.”
Dan is her inspiration, the reason she keeps going;
Why she is able to run their ailing store by herself;
How she can still smile when the sun doesn’t shine all day;
What she looks forward to when things seem impossibly cruel.
No one else could make her feel that way, and that is fine.
There is no need for anyone else as long as his laugh is hers.

With a light leap, Lisa swings away from the tree to check on the oven
Where the sugar cookies are almost ready to come out to cool,
But there is a knock at the door.
“It must be Dan’s parents. They’re a little early, but that’s like them.”
Diverted from the kitchen, she sashays to the front door,
Glad to talk to Dan’s mother especially, as she wants her advice on a gift.
Lisa pulls the door open with a flourish and is surprised to see
Two men in green on the porch, standing tall and resolute.
The world becomes unglued as they ask if she is Mrs. Lisa Kerwin.
Her whispered, “Yes,” is almost redundant as the taller man states,
“The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express
His deep regret that your husband was killed in action…”
Nothing is real except for the radio, where Bing Crosby sings
With obscene cheer, “I’ll be home for Christmas,
If only in my dreams.”

Waiting Under a Streetlight

He stood waiting under a streetlight
For thirty six full hours before realizing
That he was not there by the river
In Chicago at all, but was in fact
Walking Khao San Road in Bangkok,
Looking for a place to spend the night.

Four minutes later he discovered that was
Wrong and that his feet were boarding a train
Out of Mumbai, but he couldn’t recall
Where he was headed for the longest time.
Two and a half hours of riding the rails
And he remembered that he was supposed
To be in Lagos, but that he was really stuck
In Jakarta for the rest of the week until he
Could get the plane tickets sorted out.

For the time being, he sat on a bench in
Washington Square Park, tossing crumbs
At the pigeons and dimes at the musicians,
Wondering how much it would cost to
Rent a car and visit the Sorbonne while
He was waiting to hear back from…who?

Then something truly odd happened when
He thought for a moment that he was in
Tenochtitlan, apprehensively observing the
Arrival of Cortés at the palace of Moctezuma.

But no, he was flying business class to London
From Boston, with two drinks in his bloodstream,
A pillow under his head and a blindfold over his
Weary eyes, keeping out the muted artificial light
And impeding his view of the stewardess’s very
Fine ass that would be plainly visible if he could
Just move. Why couldn’t he move? Probably it
Was because he was actually singing karaoke in
Tokyo with some call girl that Tom had ordered
For their big night out on the town before going
To Rio for the second leg of the trip where they’d
Meet up with…who was it this time they needed?

He was going home after that in any case and home
Is where the heart is, but isn’t your heart in your
Body, and so isn’t home wherever your chest is?
No, home was in Grand Rapids or Algiers, though
It was likely in Rome, or it could have been Naples.
But now Cape Town seems more familiar, certainly
A better candidate than Lille, but maybe not as sure
As Quito, or possibly Montreal, though the winters
Are out of place, so maybe it was really Riyadh?

He sighed and brought his bicycle to a halt outside
His apartment building in Shanghai and looked to
The upper floors where his temporary home nested.
How could he have forgotten that he was in Cairo?
Clearly because he was still waiting for this delivery
And the delay and anxiety was messing with his head.
The rivulets of rain spattered his shoes when he let
His eyes fall back down to the ground, and he cursed
The weather, as he only had one day in Sydney before
They headed inland to see the Himalayas or climb them?
In frustration he kicked the curb and went back to waiting
Under the streetlight, motionless on a corner in Chicago.

Smiley Sam

Smiley Sam picked a nickel from the ground today,
Pulled some change and a bill, an afternoon’s pay.
He stayed out of the rain and massaged his feet,
And attempted to keep his opinions of the passing elite
Quiet and to himself, but no such luck.

Smiley Sam snickered and sniggered slyly,
Praising the pompous pretty people a little too highly.
He washed his face in a fast food bathroom sink
And let the patrons complain quietly about his stink,
For he really didn’t give a flying fuck.

Smiley Sam went to sleep in front of an old store,
One that was closed down for several months or more.
He dreamed that he was plying the Colorado River,
Riding the rapids until it got so cold he awoke with a shiver,
To find that he was being robbed by Little Chuck.

Smiley Sam never did have much to his name,
And for that he never griped or tried to place blame,
But he’d be damned if some scrawny kid stepped on his toes
And stole his bag right out from under his crooked nose,
So he sat up and shouted, but got stuck.

Smiley Sam lay there for several hours,
As the rain tapered off to morning showers.
The cops finally came and covered him with a sheet,
Took him to the morgue and went back to their beat,
Smiley Sam already forgotten.

Lowlands

In the wooded lowlands of life,
Where the air hangs dank and dull
Over the moss that creeps inexorably up,
Intent on strangling the oak trees,
And the distant bells of salvation can only be faintly heard,
Chiming for others,
Reaching us intermittently through the stillness,
On the edge of hearing,
Teasing our consciousness with hope that is not ours,
There we can be found, through veils of mist and loss.

Fate leaves us stranded on that deserted stretch of land
With naught in our pockets but frozen matchbooks,
Souvenirs we took from hotels
Where we made love to our favorite lovers.
They snap in our numb fingers as we try to build a fire,
Reminding us relentlessly of our failures
And the impotence of nostalgia.
The only shelter to be found is under brambles and dead leaves;
We lie there through soft, quiet rains,
Dreaming of mud and sand.

Exiled, we tramp the day away,
Searching for flickers of meaning,
In a morass of logical nihilism,
Trying silently to maintain our composure,
As darkness descends and extinguishes,
Even the light we hold in our hand to guide us home.
Groping our way over barren moors,
We can’t help but remember that even
The home we seek is a fake, a poor copy
Not even resembling the original,
Which is lost forever in the
Furthest reaches of our memory.

Time is the sole rescuer in this timeless wilderness,
The only one who patrols the footpaths and sets the
Wanderers back on the road that leads to civilization.
And if we find his lodge by the smoke from its chimney,
And approach its warm door hoping to obtain early release,
We will see that even he is never at home,
That the smoke is from a fire long gone out;
We will see his meager possessions lying enmeshed in cobwebs,
The dust settled and undisturbed for an age or more.

Crown Thy Good

An oasis of yellow light
Adrift in an endless lead sky
Fading to restless night,
Not black in the city,
But dark enough to thoroughly
Smother the day and clouds.
This lone light in a lone building
Where a lone woman sweeps a screen
With tired squinting eyes,
Right hand jotting crooked notes
On a lined pad with scratching pencil.
This lone woman all alone,
Just like the other people
At their desks on her floor,
All around her, alone.
It is eight o’clock and another
Twelve-hour day is in progress
For nearly the entire department;
Few have gone home or are about to.
Salary employees, they get no extra pay
For extra hours worked and
The company works very carefully
To make sure they get no overtime.
The woman pushes her glasses higher
With her free hand and continues to
Push the pencil with her right.
Her associate finally quit and was not replaced,
So now she does the work for two
And gets paid for three-fourths of one.
That is called increased worker productivity.
She scribbles into the night,
Knowing that her husband will be asleep
By the time she gets home,
For the third time this week.

Hundreds of miles away
The last American factory
Still grinds gears and produces
Something you or I could hold.
The evening shift doesn’t get a break
Tonight, as another order has come in,
So the foreman said two hours ago.
Still, this man needs a cigarette and smokes
At the bathroom window,
Though it could cost him his job.
The company has already moved the plant
South to North Carolina to dissolve the union,
But the whispers are that they’re ready to
Keep going all the way down to Mexico
Where they can pay even less and the laws
Don’t have to be lobbied against
Because they don’t exist.
For now this smoking man has a job,
But for how long is anybody’s guess.
He doesn’t have health benefits
Or a wage that allows him to take
His daughters to the movie theater,
But apparently he is a weight on the
Company’s profits that must be shed.
That is called globalization.
It’s been four minutes,
So he flicks his butt
And goes back to work.
He has the right-to-work,
But not to a job,
Nor really to much else.

Back at the corporate headquarters,
Several stories above the still squinting woman,
Behind frosted glass on the top floor
Sits the CEO with a spreadsheet before him.
He has increased profits by slashing benefits,
Decreasing the head count and increasing
Demands on the workers’ time
Among the people literally and figuratively below him.
The union was tough and strong in the old plant,
Five miles away, so it was his idea to move south,
To put a thousand out of work and cut costs in half
With six hundred, “non-union non-complaining
Rednecks to do the job for now,” as he told the board.
Running the numbers, they tell him China instead
Of Mexico for the next trip.
“Chinks are cheaper than wetbacks,” he chuckles
To himself as his fingers pound the keyboard.
Profits are through the roof since he hired the right
Lobbyist to make sure they secured more cost-plus
Contracts from the government than ever before;
Profit built in, with more to be made by overcharging the
Taxpayers, the chumps that actually pay part of their income,
Unlike him or the company, who are above such silliness.
Profit dictates action and that is what he does.
Numbers are his world;
They justify the fact that he is paid
Four hundred and twelve times the smoking man
And two hundred and two times the squinting woman.
He makes the hard decisions.
And so his bank account ticks upward with every sigh
Of despair that escapes from the lips of his workers.
That is called laying the foundation for a growth economy.

Thousands of miles away
In a pre-dawn strike,
One of the company’s products
Streaks down from the cold navy sky,
A small moving part in a missile
That obliterates a sleeping house
For no discernable reason
(that is called bad intel)
In a lonely mountainous land.
The mother of four young children
Was already awake and tending to the goats
While they, her husband and his parents
Remained in bed for a little longer
Or rather, forever.
Her dusty screams pierce the still reverberating air
As she stumbles to her feet and lunges toward
The smoldering rubble of her life.
Ignoring the frightened, scattering animals
And the abrasions on her bruised body,
She throws herself down, digging with her bare hands.
The numbers man could tell you that he makes
Twenty four thousand times what this woman earns in a year,
But he could not tell you anything
About the anguish and terror
In her rasping voice
As she sobs, “Allah! Allah!”
For he can not hear her
From his seat at the summit
Of his concrete peak.