Poem: “We, the People, in Order to . . .?”

“We, the People, in Order to . . .?”

I checked the cell to your desire
To see for myself if that which had burned to ashes left any remnants, a trace
Of the eternal foot race from Marathon to Athens
To defend a democracy of ideas and fragments from exploded cranium outbursts
Blazing out on cerebral superhighways, Patty Hearst
Liberation by way of polemical castration had been dispersed
Because the tele ain’t telling me anything
But the “pop” of guns that go agitprop
And the Charlie Brown squabble of artful unintelligence that likes to squawk and hear itself talk
And mutter specific generalities like “Mission Accomplished”

And they think decapitated babies and wailing mothers,
Suicidal sisters longing for lost brothers
Will end one totalitarianship, but couldn’t it bring about another?
Why do the words that are our weapons deserve to be smothered?
That which was produced free of charge does not deserve to be taken off the product line
Replaced by the inferior product of crass commercialism meant to be eaten up and swallowed for mass consumption
But be careful what you wish for
Because before you know it, the beautiful carriage will turn back into a pumpkin
And do we really want to be the schoolyard bully when the tormented eventually join together to say “Fuck Him!”?
And the stillness of the air force strike will be upon us and not them, then?

Schools teach us to not forget the past or you’re deemed to repeat it if you do
So get ready for another bomb blast and remember this one’s heading straight for you
Hiroshima History 101
It matters who’s right or wrong even when what’s done is done
Lives are at stake
NASDAQ, Dow, percentages, ratios, the soiled victory they hunger for and forcefully take matter little in this race
The faceless have faces like yours and mine
It doesn’t matter if they’re from Iraq, Afghanistan, or any other “other” place
Just don’t think you can Etch-a-Sketch a life and wipe it away without a trace

Bodies and riches, the spoils of war
And while citizens stoically stagger the streets wondering what we’re here for
Others stare at the dusty rubble where there used to be a door
Holding hands, all three of them, when just yesterday there were four
A single tear is worth as much as a flood
A single life lost is worth as much as a stack of bodies drowning in blood
And a single country’s gain does not wash away the pain
And if the best we can do is attempt to explain rather than help start anew to give others dreams they can attain
Then I will not refrain from voicing a call that has pierced the heart of our existence
And driven us to undergo an immoral race
Parts disassembled to resemble nothing more so much as what gave us shape, and voice, in the first place