(Just One More) Angry Poem
by Gretchen Belgrave
Tenderizing rotten meat, working it over, perhaps adding condiments
(Hopefully we won't recognize it- Capitalism, or was it the Other?)
We got it from the butcher already like that, The kids don'; t understand
We tell them we aren't the Butcher We tell them Power rests in bloody hands
phony People, Fascists, or maybe Democrats, The ones who kiss the Butcher
(You'd think they would get better meat, but it's all the same.)
And who is this bigger than life, dripping and seating and covered with
blood? Who is the head-man here Who is this butcher? It's not God's role
or (usually) the Pope's Bill Clinton is not Big Brother.
It is this perfectly normal, but unreflecting mad cousin of the Enlightenment
Nephew of Uncle Sam, He is the unholy offspring of mating between banking
systems with pretensions to Philosophy: The panting whore of Capitalism,
the faithless Socialist ideal. They writhe and drool for possessing it all
and teach their loveless posturings to their kids.
The Butcher is slimy with small parts of children, shreds of uniforms and
scorched hair.
The Butcher gets his way eliminating non-violence for its very lack of pragmatism.
He screams that tears are much messier than very careful torture.
He is watching the helplessness of carcasses, the tonguelessness of slaves,
and he makes us watch while speaking of necessity and a job well done.
We congratulate each other on efficiency measures, smart bombs and other
worthwhile skills like religious conquest and genocide While blessing the
God who spares us from this. We settle for whatever we can get.