Cowardice from the '70s

My love, do you remember

the love of September 11, 1972?

I was with you, elementary

as rudimentary sex, a sallow,

sifting chemical boost.

My love, it wasn’t raining.

And the neighbor’s new b&w

TV insidiously declaring,

a furious decisiveness, but

more infusion than derision.

My love, I was a child.

And now, old as auld lang signs

and symbols scattered in lectures

and conspiracy theories, I too

gave them my blasphemies—

but free now of the danger, or

the necessary boldness, or

knowledgeable bombasts

and socialistic baldness.

I am, thank you, a social silt

with new semiconductor blues.

‘Tis not to say the times

are way, way better. Indeed

I can testify to a dry spell,

or swell in inanities, flash

corporate knots & violences.

In fact things haven’t changed

that much, historicity forgot;

that cities are nuts, provinces

belt us with rot, new or reborn

derisive oafs & impatiences.

Not to say, too, I’ve learned.

On Facebook you will witness

sallow, sifting distillery boosts on

rainy days, where my mockeries

declare not, disclaim very well.

May 16, 2007 - August 30, 2009