Remembering 9/11

[SlowBurn68]

 

 

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?

[bjorn_skurj]

I love this poem.

 

9/11 (With Allen Ginsberg in Mind)

 

By Andrei Codrescu

 

9/11, I can barely remember you, they

[sweetheart-mine]

this poem was sent to me by my brother just after 9/11. as a preface he wrote "You may have seen this in the NY Times. As heartbreaking as this passage is, I think it also shows the power of language, of art, to cut through even the worst of experience, to help us make sense of things that make no sense, and even (in this case, at least for me) to provide a kind of solace."

 

 

"Thousands of blossoms, red, brown,

white, yellow, black scattered on ground

made tender by their falling.

"This human body, more fragile than the

dew, drops on the countless tips of morning

grass."

"My wailing voice is the bright September

wind, and in the dark night, silence speaks:

"I will die only when love dies, and you will

not let love die."

 

-- Bonnie Myotai Treace, Sensei

Fire Lotus Temple

Zen Mountain Monastery, Brooklyn