I can bore you with talk
of women and children,
but it is simple enough to say
human beings.
Human beings
run in gathering storms
of concrete dust;
run from misting
of meat.
Explosions are sudden fatal therapy
for human beings
suffering dissonance,
and there's nothing quite
the same as losing words.
All of these
human beings,
cut-off
quick
in Tourette syndrome
****
Pu.nc-tu-a.tion.
Caught in the concrete cloud
darker than Krubera Cave,
lost out on a betrayed Silk Road,
as bloated blue bodies
wash up on Indonesian shores.
This city of centuries
built by human beings,
has now become
almost-five thousand corpses
who dangle their toes
out of shrapnel windows.
Pieces of me sweat
away in an instant of swaying black burqas,
rocking on knees at a cemetery.
I’m standing in Beirut -
nineteen-eighty two.
I watch towers fall.
There has to be
a way to make the world relate,
even if it takes
nineteen years.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
I can bore you with talk
of women and children,
but it is simple enough to say
human beings.
Human beings
run in gathering storms
of concrete dust;
run from misting
of meat.
Explosions are sudden fatal therapy
for human beings
suffering dissonance,
and there's nothing quite
the same as losing words.
All of these
human beings,
cut-off
quick
in Tourette syndrome
****
Pu.nc-tu-a.tion.
Caught in the concrete cloud
darker than Krubera Cave,
lost out on a betrayed Silk Road,
as bloated blue bodies
wash up on Indonesian shores.
This city of centuries
built by human beings,
has now become
almost-five thousand corpses
who dangle their toes
out of shrapnel windows.
Pieces of me sweat
away in an instant of swaying black burqas,
rocking on knees at a cemetery.
I’m standing in Beirut -
nineteen-eighty two.
I watch towers fall.
There has to be
a way to make the world relate,
even if it takes
nineteen years.
Request permission to use this poem