i didn’t think it would
ever come to this
where I literally could not breathe
because some heartless people in
a faraway place were
so selfish that they
cared more about giant corporations
giving them money
and keeping them in power
than for a little person
like me to be able to breathe
some great country
This Star of David for people in Exile
For those decimated by centuries of horror
And unimaginable cruelty by dominant cultures
Once symbolized protection from all harm
It is now a star of intolerance and retribution
Hatikva, once a song of hope for the Diaspora
A poem adopted in the 1st Zionist Congress
As a national anthem, it is a warning to neighbors
Of military might without compassion or remorse
An anathema to to people of the West Bank and Gaza
You’ll hear all the talking heads
Talk about how
Both sides are equivalent
Spreading the false idea
That the policies each side promotes
Are somehow the same
When even the slightest examination
Reveals that one side’s policies
Destroy all that is good
And the other’s try to
Help others
Fending off the opposition’s base instincts
The difference between living
In an unequal hell or
A civilized society
Glossed over by people
Who claim to know
What they’re talking about
Palpebral fissures and hair types
The words on t-shirts and caps
Nowadays are dead giveaways
Like body sales at the morgue
Tatoo images and sunglasses
Blue tooth plugs and gold jewelry
Say no more, we’ve got your number
Shorthand summaries never fail
Amerika, Amerika
God shed His Grace on Me!
Close in.
Be a cow:
cusp of a curve, small
green hill, cuds of clover,
(all you want), beauty in
the soft, the randy fur,
the hard silk of horns.
Beauty too in the brown
guileless eyes. Fit fingers
about the head, its hard square
horns, the kissable nubs,
the whiskered ears
& jaw stronger
than Rushmore’s Washington.
One look, touch, & no harm
could be sought, only, at most,
the mild whip of a tail
flicking at flies.
Hug the neck, arms like garlands
& it’s entering an aviary,
just chatter chirps, intelligent
feathers tapestried in winds
the color of a changing angel.
You as well, pastoral chameleon,
breathe the sensual range between
cool damp & tropic heat,
flesh showing the vulnerable bones
& muscles cloths might hide.
Those aren’t oceans,
Unless as imagined as so,
& intimacy finds others, licks, lives
the inner
while in some rooms buttons are boxes
& we say:
Mr. Executive, keep hands off.
More at http://stephenmead.weebly.com/.
Jerk at all trades
Telling us it’s a win
Failing all grades
While doing us in
Coward and weakling
Tweeting us to riot
Morbidly obese king
We don’t have to buy it
No school transcripts
And no tax returns
Surrounded by misfits
While the US yearns
No more years