© By Boinkaz
Hard deck of the day rolls
from morning to lunch.
Brown beam chirrups in the wind.
I will Fo’c’s’le
on the four o’clock hour
when the wisdom of the machine
Light of my evening rising in the
Spin cycle of the wash.
The sleeve of my black work shirt
Spells help in a circle
Clutches the devil’s edge.
Before the whole ship swirls under.
Under Pol Pot
back in Year Zero
they cut the breasts off pretty girls
For the crime of being pretty
And for having breasts
and lay them on a mat.
In Rwanda, Tutsis killed Hutus
And cut the legs from under them
For the crime of being tall,
to cut them down to size.
In America, our genocide is of the mind.
We humble our heroes with exhaustion,
Bring our philosophers to heel with false hope,
Sue our patriots when they rebel,
And imprison our poets when they speak.
For such people must be pirates
give them the jolly roger all
and drop them in the fast waters off the straits of Malacca,
among their kind.