911Poem



	�� �� yes, �� us people are just poems �� we're 90% metaphor �� with a leanness of meaning �� bordering on 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 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 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 �� and iraq, and el salvador �� here's a toast to the folks living on the pine ridge reservation �� with gi joe still coming back for more �� 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 hot oil or 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 bought the oval office in that phony election �� and i'll tell you what, while we're at it �� let me state unequivocally �� he is not president of me �� he is not president of 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 �� cause once upon a time the line followed the river �� and peeked into all the backyards �� where laundry was waving �� and 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 big 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 the truth 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 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 everyone's face �� and scoping that scene �� religiously �� the CIA �� (or is it the KGB?) �� committing countless crimes against humanity �� with this kind of eventuality �� as it's 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 �� 5000 some poems disguised as people �� on an almost too perfect day �� must be more than just 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 �� listen... �� baby �� hear the train?

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