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. . . . . . mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
. . . . . In dedication to
. . . . . . mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm everyone who was lost
. . . . . or lost someone
. . . . . . mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm September 11, 2001:
. . . . . Anada 440
. . . . . . mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm "Apocalypse Again"
by Desert
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
09/30/01
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
The paper wafted out
of the world trade center
flew 3 miles across the Hudson
in a last-ditch attempt
out of all this madness of a
3rd world war; they say
these things come in threes
[no man of woman born
shall harm Macbeth].
An hour away
Rebecca studies to teach
maybe. Now nothing
is certain.
We repeat horror over and over.
Video loop trying
to make it real as the
world screams: make it unreal!
Make it unreal!
Make it real until
our skin breaks collectively
until we are all under
tons of rubble and
suddenly childless.
Make it unreal because
it is terrorism's victory again;
because today
we are not saying revolutionary, these
are not our chosen rebels.
After breaking news
after the hysterical laughter
[campy, this, and overdone]
subsided, I sat
in the hall of my high school,
silent.
Watching the sky through
a high window, the blue
complementing the
color scheme of
lockers walls and carpet,
small clouds passing
and meaning nothing,
I tapped my feet
together, feet in
fishnet stockings and
black plastic mary janes
heels two inches
telling myself a story:
In the story
which is as real as anything
the morning of world war III
I can feel my feet.
And I can.
I can feel the silence thick around me.
Even now the TV is on, has been on
when the car coughed and ran
when the tape deck played and
voices on the radio spoke to me
and lying in the graveyard
eyes closed hands crossed sensing
the silence filtered all, thick
as fog around me
hours ago I thought of my suicide
hours! --and felt life was hard
and cold strange broken.
This fog, thick as
phleghm,
temperature cool as corpses.
It is [not] OK. It is
[not] going to be OK.
World war 3 was
something like boogeyman
we threw three words around
like we were immortal,
would never be drafted,
had no relation to New York,
would never face atrocities,
never discover
humanity versus inhumanity.
My math teacher is
trig-passionate
he closed his text and
said "math just seems
futile today"
24 hours ago I
joked like death wasn't
on the back porch
2 hours ago Afghanistan
was not a part of my world
--another reality. Mine
could get no worse.
Pills I've got
don't knock me out.
Yesterday's nothing is
more than 6000 could
dream of.
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
. . .------
* * ------ by Desert (c) anada.net 09/30/01
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mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
