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  • Saturday, August 21, 2004


    Lyric of fear

    I seem to be on a poetry jag, writing bits of, well, images and emotional impressions to soothe some itch in myself. I named this "Sheltering Sadness" at first but I think "Fight Fascism!" is more appropriate. I particularly like the last two lines: "Fascism isn’t the boot in your face;/It’s the boot in the face next to you."

    Calls running down the line from the past,
    Epitomized, without eulogy, by the scent
    Of dry grass summer days.

    The framing of we in the country of silence,
    A shared alliance against loneliness, a suture
    In preparation for colonial imperialism.

    Could we shy away? Would we prevaricate
    In dulcet tomes? Should we read this sortie
    As remedial or rectification? A reification?

    There is a stamp of sad bemusement about us,
    Stolen participation leaving voids of consent
    Where we sing paeans to a false history.

    Can we replace tear-filled byes with shock and paw?
    A mauling we requested without knowledge, yet
    Offering withered fruit on the vine in tribute.

    Snarling anger lashes, contempt so present and
    Palpable it’s a organism living beyond its origins,
    Rising metaphor creating the new rhetor.

    No shelter remains viable, the erosion of complacent
    Idylls leaves only firebrands ascendant and joyous,
    Renewed through blood and such special fire.

    These flames are dark, birthplace of broken glass
    On night sidewalks, torches refracted by shards in
    Pools of liquid so black, cooling in the moonlight.

    We were told and told and still we forgot:
    Fascism isn’t the boot in your face;
    It’s the boot in the face next to you.

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