I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU BELIEVE OR ESPOUSE
I don’t care what you believe or espouse,
show me what you eat
and I’ll know what your ideology is.
Capitalism, for example,
like a great hog at the Wall Street Trough,
the Toronto Stock Exchange,
eats its own young down to the marrow.
And communism descends like a plague of locusts
out to reform the sheaves of the people like wheat.
And the worst world fanaticism,
the Islamofacists and Zionazis,
and the flies who rule Africa,
who promise milk and honey
and houris around the fountain of Salsabil
to anyone who murders in their name,
puts everything on the menu
and makes anyone anywhere fair game.
And it’s free enterprise for the poor
and it’s socialism for the rich
who get the biggest welfare cheques
while the middle extreme between them
lives on the trickle-down economics
of the leftovers that fall off the table
of politicians throwing scraps to the hunting dogs
who move among the legs of their masters
like lobbyists among the pillars of the banks
knee-deep in the blood of the abbatoir
in which they sit down like cattle-prods to give thanks.
Consider the collateral damage
of children killed like footnotes
or amendments to a bill
that would permit the sale of landmines
to the lords of famine who plant them
to shatter the flesh of the farmer who’s learned
to plough with a sword.
Bumper crops of body parts.
And look how the indifferent and the evil
wash their hands of blood
in the bottled water of the highest ideals of the mob
mouthing off to the pundits of popcorn
to secure a place on the Great Cob
of the American nightmare.
And it’s good to have a big heart with a big dream
that knows enough CPR
to thump on your chest to revive you
but how long can it survive in a world
that’s got a sewer for a bloodstream?
And what can you make of a Republican party
parsing the purity of gangrene
to block health care reform
like an election with a saw in its hands?
And you may think you know Christ
and organize like the Templars of C-Street
with great crosses of blood on your adulterated bedsheets
to protect the holy land from Democrats
but you better look twice in the mirror
at the skidmark you are in his eyes
when you stand up like the atrocity you are
to toast the good life with a grail
expecting to be rewarded
for all the sick children you denied a cure
by a healer who loved them beyond death.
Did you know there are state suppers in hell
where demons drink the blood of children
from a church bell
and draw lots from your skull
to see who gets to eat your heart today?
And spit it out like a fly
that corrupts the choicest wines
of the infernal and divine alike?
Even in hell as you are on earth
you’re bad meat down the well,
and some have noticed lately
even the fire that cooks you
is tainted by the smell.
Do you really think the sublime intelligence
that suffuses creation with love
like the dark mother of us all
and frees us like rivers of insight
to return to her like bright waters full of life
would affirm your offense to existence for long;
or that Jesus, Muhammad, Moses, Buddha,
or the decency who lives down the street,
knowing the children, the uncles, the brothers,
the lovers, the fathers and mothers,
the friends who have died
because there was a cure
a remedy, a redemption
for what killed them
but you denied them,
the electoral greed and cunning
of a petty slumgod in the senate
as an excuse for so much pain?
Or that the croaking of toxic toads
on corporate lily pads
rooted in the muck and swamp gas
of your obnoxious morality
that scabs the snapping turtles
waiting like backroom ceo’s below
would pass through their ears
like the clefs of angelic choirs
swanning their way through murder on Moonlake?
Or that the way you turn the prayers of mothers
all over the earth tonight
that their wounded children might live,
that they might walk and see and hear again,
that there be an end of the suffering and the illness,
that they have shelter and food,
school, play, medicine
and time to explore their innocence,
the way you pervert their prayers
into the new rhetoric of liars
under the jackboots
of your fanatically uncommon sense,
as if you spoke from one bush
for many fires,
or looked at Christ’s wound
as he hung on the cross before your committee
as you choked the neck of the microphone and said,
Physician heal thyself.
There are no fiscal limits on your pity.
Or funding for universal coverage to resurrect the dead.