The death of plenty (ver 3)

[LeoVictorBriones (poetremains)]

I want to write a poem about extraordinary chaos—
about cicada’s swirling about the heads of ordinary Joses and Joshuas,
Marys and Marias, Tanya and Tashekas, Fatimas and Zhens—
walking on the pavement of gray America, slogging through the gutter
and jittering in too hip cafes in search of a color beyond blue,
beyond purple, beyond magenta sky—

about people whispering the way they did for two days
after they saw their first horror film, only this time they never realize
it’s only Hollywood or that tomorrow the sun won’t rise
and glide across the sky and fall toward Japan—

this time its different, this time its like a dusty-footed Bedouin boy
discovering jars of clay, filled with the Dead Sea Scrolls, in an ancient cave
and opening that papyrus only to realize everything you’ve ever spoofed as myth
is exactly what was happening at that very moment—

and this time the Norman Rockwell portrait of American
is not baseball and The Saturday Evening Post but homes
with white picket fences and foreclosure signs lined up like corn fields
and a frenzy of Wall Street junkies wandering the streets of lower Manhattan
hollowed and mumbling that 9-11 was just an echo, just a super nova
before the cold reckoning of this imploding white dwarf—

and here on the gold, gold coast we hear the clickity-clack of jackboots
cleverly disguised in Wingtips and Vans and suddenly
we realize that the devil doesn’t wear a blue dress
nor hide on the backward lyrics of a Blue Oyster Cult song
NO the grim reaper we have come to fear is more notion than thought
more the fifty-five year old white male who was pink slipped
for a twenty-eight year old Harvard smart ass
the one who finds his bad fortune easier to blame on Juan and Igancio
waiting in front of Home Depot of Lowe’s than to blame it on
the white collared, red tied, BMW driving executive he always aspired to be,

We have ground our vocal cords to vein and mush
can no longer recite the résumé of the modern world
can no longer say manipulating securities or selling clever mortgages is less dangerous
than Osama bin Laden hiding between the Stone Age and the ozone stench of modernity

Yes ,
this is a shadow of revelation,
of the Eagle and the Bear wrestling on the eastern sky,
because it could end like this—
with all that we hold holy
with every silver and gold coin we worship
with every stock and Super Bowl mega ad
stinging us like that scorpion
stung the noble frog that ferried it across the water.

[lizbethbrown]

i really like this poem. it pulled me in right from the start. i like that it went from dreamy to very real which is really a dream like nightmare anyway. sets the perfect tone for your story. it could use some editing - they’re/their, a/an, etc. - some spelling errors throughout. but, the poem itself is exactly what i like about poetry - it creates its own special world while also telling the truth of our current existence without the arguing and posturing we hear in the media and from our policitians. nicely conceived.

[mfwilkie]

I agree with lizbeth with re: to tighteing this, Leo.

It's a strong poem.

Some thoughts:

I want to write a poem about extraordinary chaos—
about of cicada’s swirling about the heads of ordinary Joses and Joshuas,
Marys and Marias, Tanya and Tashekas, Fatimas and Zhens—
walking on the pavement of gray America, slogging through the gutter
and jittering in too hip cafes in search of a color beyond blue,
beyond purple, beyond a magenta sky—

about people whispering* the way they did for two days
after they saw their first horror film, only this time they never realize
it’s only Hollywood or that tomorrow the sun won’t rise
and glide across the sky and fall toward Japan—

this time its different, this time its like a dusty-footed Bedouin boy
discovering jars of clay filled with the Dead Sea Scrolls in an ancient cave,
and opening that a papyrus* only to realize everything he you’ve ever spoofed as myth
is exactly what is happening at that very moment—[/font* Something more concrete here, Leo.

and this time the Norman Rockwell portrait of American
is not isn't baseball and The Saturday Evening Post but homes
with white picket fences and foreclosure signs lined up like corn fields
and a frenzy of Wall Street junkies wandering the streets of lower Manhattan
hollowed and mumbling that 9-11 was just an echo, just a super nova
before the cold reckoning of this imploding white dwarf—

and here on the gold, gold coast we hear the clickity-clack of jackboots
cleverly disguised in Wingtips and Vans and suddenly
we realize that the devil doesn’t wear a blue dress
nor hide on the backward lyrics of a Blue Oyster Cult song
NO the grim reaper we have come to fear is more notion than thought
more the fifty-five year old white male who was pink slipped
for a twenty-eight year old Harvard Princeton ;D smart ass
the one who finds his bad fortune easier to blame on Juan and Igancio
waiting in front of Home Depot or Lowe’s than to blame it on
the white collared, red tied, BMW driving executive he always aspired to be,

We have ground our vocal cords to vein and mush
can no longer recite the résumé of the modern world
can no longer say manipulating securities or selling clever mortgages is less dangerous
than Osama bin Laden hiding between the Stone Age and the ozone stench of modernity

Yes ,
this is a shadow of revelation,
of the Eagle and the Bear wrestling on the eastern sky,
because it could end like this—
with all that we hold holy
with every silver and gold coin we worship
with every stock and Super Bowl mega ad
stinging us like that scorpion
stung the noble frog that ferried it across the water.

I like your ending.


* Not sure of whispering after your first horror film.

Maggie