After eight online books of poems and an online book of stories written in English, I resolved in August 2009 to resume my online literary activity. And so I started this blogsite with new blogged poems, which was completed as the eponymously-titled collection here, "Perennial Measure." I then followed it up with weekly chapters for a new project, a blogged novel titled "Fidel's March". That's finished. I'm now here working on a collection of bilingual poems titled "Third Cup Na 'To".
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Our Sons' Cold-Blooded Future
Flood. As we're back in this gods' dam and layered raincloud
situation, towns and suburbs usurped by power stations' or
lumberjacks' liquid money monkeying around with our fate,
some others' ignorance in ignominious celebrations of survival.
As we're second class citizens in this republic of big business
blindness suddenly nobled liable into the thick or tic of charity,
we, final pawns in the universal population center experiment.
Foreign-funded projects? These are programmed to promote
profundity in social relationships, since time began, and we're
bleak souls and black-fortuned witnesses to floating bodies of
riverine shanty segments of pie charts. And we're here today,
instantly promised disaster relief canned goodness by erstwhile
celebrators of unpopularity, handshakers by latent meanness.
Food! Fun time alternating with confusion, tension, the lines
chopper-instigated at the evacuation centers, chopper march
colliding with both our cheers and the deafened religious chant
from a kneeling pew-less few; here, forgetting loss of washing
machine witcheries, fridge responsibilities, TV temptations. And
the tours the chopper takes, from northern inundations on to
southern drownings, fodder for the whore news media-hugged
Foto-Me smirker, branding relief and free advertising rating
as faked rantings of supposedly masses-friendly figures in a
run for the presidency, their vote buying drowned in the vote
potential of a rising death count, beneficiaries of ghost dikes.
Flow. Fix nothing herewards and allow evolutions to normally
flow by, where parental patiences may give way to some time
future brimming with evacuee-like raving remonstrances and
rebellion. But no worries, evolutions take centuries, and so let
us go on and build more cities, more dams, more estero-shanty
markets and labor forces, a rising red sap for the family trees
of societal filial relationship-like comfort, steep pyramid looking
over disposable citizenries and middle classes as the plutocracy
of dismal Christianities snore like hell while floods rise in a flash.
Flaw. A fart in time will give way to a crack in your voices, o dam
builders, o dead unwilling victims, o dried-up ruins of eternally-
wet mud under peeking suns, our sons' rain-soaked, wide-eyed
rooftop disbelief shivering from the ladder climb or the evil cold.