Easter 2003

morning

7 am Tucson the

sun turns the

tent to an oven the

sun bright over another deathtrip

in another desert

on a gravel road in a Pontiac he

            doused her in gasoline & lit her & ran

            1.

Chillin’ in a tent in the desert

the sun barely up

biding time with Edward Albee

cowboy stories surrounded

by flags, flags, flags

everyday is flag day everywhere these days

cross our

star spangled land

on a patriotic, god-fearing bender

& the stars -n- stripes

is the geometry of war

somewhere, out there,

some George Washington crosses a Delaware

he doesn't know, and

the mother of all bombs

won't douse hate

attracted to the Tikrit triangle

like metal shavings over a magnet

or

the desperation of the already dead

on a gravel lane somewhere outside Bloomington

and, this is it: Theresa’s dead.

She's blood

whistling past the graveyard . . .

the distant rumble in the background

the thunderhead on the horizon

always on the horizon

it's death, man,

among the flying flags

and burning cars.

            2.

  the highway intersects

a Wednesday morning funeral

 deep in the heart of New Mexico

Tony & Matt fluting the ruins

and going back . . . 

become the darkness in Little Rock

shed your skin in the dawn of Roswell

Arkansas, Oklahoma, & Texas a howling tunnel of other

shades & delineations of nothing

Oklahoma City, Erick, Amarillo

Tikrit, Bagdad

Elletsville, Bedford, Bloomington

& how do we explain to the dead

that there was nothing there

how do we explain to the living

that there is never anything there

and that drinking tequila in the desert won't kill it

and that drinking whiskey in Louisville Kentucky won't kill it

and that drinking Bud Light in Bedford Indiana won't kill it

and that bowing to the east won't kill it

the horror creeping like a virus

exploding into  murder  fire  jihad                                                         

& poets digging into the closets

of horrible darkness won't kill it

                                                           

&

she was probably dead when he set her on fire

’cause you don’t just douse people in gasoline

& set them on fire

& burn them up in their cars –

he's charged with arson

’cause he burned her up

but not with murder

’cause she may have been dead already

            &

we all die a little more every

hellbent day of this backward millennium . . .

guns in Baghdad

somewhere east of

the center of chaos

Southern Indiana deathtrip

swooping like a crow

            3.

the dead lay where they are

the living lay where they are

the flutes & drums of the Yaqui try to raise them

sacred ash and mariachi trills try to raise them

Easter Saturday on the rez by the casino

choking dust, burning masks,

purification by fire

a Pontiac burning on a Monroe County road

chapayeka drag burning under the Easter cross

a car bomb just outside the green zone,

another minister assassinated

another body for the dust

and, the choking dust of New Pascua

celebrates the resurrection

while the dead lie where they lay

in Iraq

in Bloomington

the funeral

goes on

without me

            4.

. . . and there are flags, flags, everywhere flags

yellow ribbons, red bumperstickers

the highway awash with patriotism

every SUV with a petrol-drunk V-8

every broke-down Ford with Tennessee plates

a crazy fool with delusions grand

again deals the penultimate hand

death reigns in another foreign land

and, in the cactus-scarred slopes of Arizona

and, in the inbred back roads of Indiana

another flag waves

another innocent dies

and, I’m here, another shot of whiskey,

another

            5.

                        morning

7 am Tucson the

sun turns the

tent to an oven the

sun bright over another deathtrip

from Greetings From Tucson

written spring 2003