It's not about borders
or bombs at all,
or guerillas in camouflage
or secret air raids in the night,
when presidents are sleeping
and the warlords
are dancing two-steps
till the dawn.
It isn't about the prisoners
encamped by fences
or the tanks
carving tracks
in Arab sand,
or the manner in which
white leaflets drop
warning masses
of impending doom.
It doesn't mean a thing
that missiles rotate
in secret silos
underground,
or warheads
crown their apex
with coordinates
set in place.
It's about the brother
you called a fag,
the girl across the street
you said was gross,
the kid rebuffed
on corners
'cause he's black
and sporting "Pistons"
on his shirt,
that suburban shoppers
are quick to make assumptions --
about the businessman
you assume
cares for nothing
other than cash,
the twins you feel are the same
and soldiered commies
if shy Chinese,
the hatred seeded
in budding hearts
when you murmur children
keep your distance.
(c) 2007 by Andreas Gripp
to avoid cleaning under the stairs
How lonely it must be
to be a spider
in the basement,
one that's sitting on its web,
in a corner without light,
awaiting that rare arrival,
the hoped-for,
off chance encounter,
when an insect-thing
will venture where it knows
it really shouldn't,
get trapped in sticky white,
kick its hair-like limbs
in a panic,
sensing deep-down in resistance
that the end has inevitably come,
there's no escaping this alive,
feeling the webbing
beginning to bounce
as its maker at last approaches.
I sometimes have to wonder
if the spider ever pities,
considers mercy for a moment,
seeing its tiring victim struggle
in the seconds before the kill,
being tempted,
not by pangs
of some compassion,
but by those of isolation,
supplanting that of hunger
and its drive to feed and hunt;
taking an instant to say hello,
in its own spidery way,
enjoy the twinning breath
of company,
a meeting of insect/arachnid eyes,
wish it could share a tale or two,
get to know this flying creature,
fellow cellar-dweller, better,
hope there's no karma-bearing grudge
or vengeance doled by divinity,
that its prey will understand,
know the slaying isn't personal,
that the pinch and bite are quick,
that the blood that's drained
is a gift,
gratefully received,
that calming sleep comes first,
so deep in life's last ebbing
there'll be the precious chance
to dream.
(c) 2007 by Andreas Gripp
In clashing closets,
your reds mimic my blacks
in starch and wrinkles,
in pleats unkempt
and the way that mothballs
keep our earwigs at bay.
When we were younger,
we shared our cramped enclosures,
folded every sock
and cashmere sweater,
high heels and tennis shoes
conjoined in copulation.
Now they're flung across the bedroom
after a brutal day at work
or an aggressive walk
from the bus stop,
butts of cigarettes
scenting the soles,
broken snaps and laces
securing our silence.
(c) 2007 by Andreas Gripp