The Problem With Idealism
this poem would permanently disarm all nations:
No one can drop nukes for any reason
other than that they, like, you know,
this poem would stop the screaming,
still the generalized motorized bee-buzz hum
in the reeling stomach.
It would be the final drug needed
to belay any personal problems
you or I may have with our doctors
or our parents,
force the insurance company to forgo co-payment
for our feelings
and physical failings.
It would allow every construction worker developer and oil baron
the emotional availability to hug trees.
It would set the unvarying rhythm of days
off kilter, consent to something with
more cadence bombast,
and maybe have the
to stop time from running.
It would even weave my veins together
to form a peculiar tapestry of
and hang itself
next to my Papa’s hospice bed,
heal him, and my cut up skin too
cure cancer and cure too, every urge
I ever had to hurt
myself or another.
It would turn that need into want
of a different form.
turn war to peace
and water to wine
this poem might only serve to assuage
the unexplained angry sting of the everyday
or pour salt on Evil’s garden
lock baby Evil in an idling car
and stuff a sock in the exhaust pipe
put a wet blanket
over a body ablaze
Sometime in 2010