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yes,
us people are just poems.
we're 90% metaphor.
with a leanness of meaning,
approaching hyper-distillation.
and once upon a time,
we were moonshine -
rushing down the throat of a giraffe.
yes, rushing down the long hallway,
despite what the p.a. announcement says.
yes, rushing down the long stairs,
with the whiskey of eternity,
fermented and distilled,
to eighteen minutes.
burning down our throats,
down the hall,
down the stairs -
in a building so tall,
that it will always be there.
yes, it's part of a pair-
there on the bow of noah's ark,
the most prestigious couple.
just kickin back parked,
against a perfectly blue sky -
on a morning beatific,
in its indian summer breeze.
on the day that america,
fell to its knees-
after strutting around for a century
without saying thank you
or please.
and the shock was subsonic -
and the smoke was deafening -
between the setup and the punch line,
cuz we were all on time for work that day.
we all boarded that plane for to fly,
and then while the fires were raging-
we all climbed up on the windowsill,
and then we all held hands -
and jumped into the sky.
and every borough looked up when it heard the first blast,
and then every dumb action movie was summarily surpassed.
and the exodus uptown by foot and motorcar-
looked more like war than anything i've seen so far-
so far-
so far-
so fierce and ingenious.
a poetic specter so far gone,
that every jackass newscaster was struck dumb and stumbling-
over 'oh my god' and 'this is unbelievable'
and on and on.
and i'll tell you what, while we're at it-
you can keep the pentagon!
keep the propaganda !
keep each and every tv -
that's been trying to convince me,
to participate!
in some prep school punk's plan to perpetuate retribution
perpetuate retribution .
even as the blue toxic smoke of our lesson in retribution
is still hanging in the air.
and there's ash on our shoes,
and there's ash in our hair.
and there's a fine silt on every mantle-
from hell's kitchen to brooklyn.
and the streets are full of stories-
sudden twists and near misses.
and soon every open bar is crammed to the rafters,
with tales of narrowly averted disasters,
and the whiskey is flowin -
like never before.
as all over the country
folks just shake their heads
and pour.
so here's a toast to all the folks who live in
palestine.
afghanistan-
iraq-
el salvador.
here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation-
under the stone cold gaze of mt. rushmore.
here's a toast to all those nurses and doctors-
who daily provide women with a choice.
who stand down a threat the size of oklahoma city-
just to listen to a young woman's voice!
here's a toast to all the folks on death row right now-
awaiting the executioner's guillotine.
who are shackled there with dread and can only escape into their heads
to find peace in the form of a dream
cuz take away our playstations -
and we are a third world nation!
under the thumb of some blue blood royal son-
who stole the oval office and that phony election..
i mean,
it don't take a weatherman,
to look around and see the weather-
jeb said he'd deliver florida, folks
and boy did he ever
and we hold these truths to be self evident:
#1 george w. bush is not president
#2 america is not a true democracy
#3 the media is not fooling me
cuz i am a poem heeding hyper-distillation.
i've got no room for a lie so verbose.
i'm looking out over my whole human family,
and i'm raising my glass in a toast-
here's to our last drink of fossil fuels-
let us vow to get off of this sauce.
shoo away the swarms of commuter planes-
and find that train ticket we lost.
cuz once upon a time the line followed the river,
and peeked into all the backyards,
and the laundry was waving.
the graffiti was teasing us-
from brick walls and bridges,
we were rolling over ridges,
through valleys,
under stars.
i dream of touring like duke ellington-
in my own railroad car.
i dream of waiting on the tall blonde wooden benches,
in a grand station aglow with grace.
and then standing out on the platform,
and feeling the air on my face.
give back the night its distant whistle.
give the darkness back its soul.
give the big oil companies the finger finally
and relearn how to rock-n-roll.
yes, the lessons are all around us and a change is waiting there.
so it's time to pick through the rubble, clean the streets
and clear the air!
get our government to pull its big dick out of the sand
of someone else's desert.
put it back in its pants,
and quit the hypocritical chants of
freedom forever.
cuz when one lone phone rang,
in two thousand and one-
at ten after nine,
on nine one one.
which is the number we all called,
when that lone phone rang right off the wall.
right off our desk and down the long hall.
down the long stairs,
in a building so tall.
that the whole world turned
just to watch it fall.
and while we're at it
remember the first time around?
the bomb?
the ryder truck?
the parking garage?
the princess that didn't even feel the pea?
remember joking around in our apartment on avenue D?
can you imagine how many paper coffee cups would have to change their design-
following a fantastical reversal of the new york skyline?!
it was a joke, of course -
it was a joke -
at the time .
and that was just a few years ago,
so let the record show;
that the FBI was all over that case.
that the plot was obvious and in everybody's face,
and scoping that scene-
religiously.
the CIA
or is it KGB?
committing countless crimes against humanity.
with this kind of eventuality
as its excuse,
for abuse after expensive abuse.
and it didn't have a clue.
look, another window to see through
way up here,
on the 104th floor.
look-
another key,
another door.
10% literal,
90% metaphor
3000 some poems disguised as people-
on an almost too perfect day,
should be more than pawns
in some asshole's passion play.
so now it's your job
and it's my job,
to make it that way.
to make sure they didn't die in vain
sshhhhhh....
baby listen
hear the train?
ani d.
