As I said in my previous post, at some point prose fails to express what I really feel. And I also begin to observe something that people who have never lived in a dictatorship may be slow to notice: that frank language is actively repressed, that certain truths may not be debated or even mentioned. That is why poetry often flourishes under repressive regimes, where a “secret” language must be used. I see this happening in America… perhaps this is the moment for poetry.
Thinking over the world, in this summer of 2012, this is what I wrote.
Hanging there like an unpaid bill, this inauspicious summer,
With its hot breath shriveling corn:
Ears that fall to dust.
A summer filled with factories for nesting birds:
Tools absorbed in rust.
While in some godforsaken corner,
From where God is said to hail,
A pimp of others' agony,
Grooms the panting hounds of hell.