On the Day of Chocolate Truth
Next to the china coffee cup
Rests a calabash of cream
As Woodrow Wilson
Consumes a bowl of rabbit
Stew, smacking his lips
In relish, one day after
Blithely selling humanity out
To
The jackals,
Of the chandelier casting
A pattern of shadows over the
Tightened skin of his face, each tiny
Shadow the shape of Christ hanging
On the cross. “You can’t
Respond to evil with love
And expect it to respond
In kind. You can respond to
Ignorance with love, and hope and
Will come around and see the light,
But I’m not sure that’s possible with
Evil, for evil is a completely alien force
From ignorance. It preys on it, but it is
Alien from it,” he thought to himself as
He finished the rabbit stew, wiping his
Mouth with his napkin, as outside
The White House the winter sunset
Tapered off into dusk.
To get to heaven,” thought Lyndon
Johnson, sitting at his desk in the Oval
Office, blandly studying the casualty figures: 34 dead,
174 wounded. It is June, 1967.
“Jack Kennedy knew what
Dying sailors look like. Pity I never
Saw one.” The hell of it was,
Those damn bastards on the Saratoga
Had had to be recalled twice. He wished that
From the mouths of U.S. officials. “We could
Declare it a national holiday,” he thought.
“Rusk and the rest of those eastern liberal
Cocksuckers will simply have to learn: we don’t
Embarrass an ally. At least not this one.
It takes a lot of money to buy off every
Politician in this damn town, and they’ve
Got it.” The intercom on his desk buzzed.
“She’s here,” said his secretary. He straightened.
“Send her in.”
“Of course. Did you think I wouldn’t?” Though she was Jewish,
She was like Rio de Janeiro on a bender, a wild and exotic
Beauty—shutting the door now and approaching him confidently.
In their private moments an untamable thirst conducted her
Movements, her hand, like a claw, ever reaching for his sex organ;
This was the woman he had sacrificed 34 Americans for.
Was she worth it? He took her in his
Arms with a fierce urgency, “That’s all we need,
Is just to get to heaven,” he whispered.
That was one helluva Day last fall…Boom!”
W giggled as he laid his red dress out on
The bed, anticipating the gamecock’s arrival.
It was April, 2002.
“Of course, in a weird way, the world owes the
Jews a debt of gratitude,” he thought. “America was
Far too powerful to be destroyed from without; it could only
Be defeated from within.” Now it would die—although it
Could be a lingering death—and he was glad. W hated
Back as kids growing up in Midland, Texas, when he and old
Terry used to put firecrackers in the frogs and light’em—
He had always imagined each frog was a state:
Texas…pop!...Missouri…pop!...New York…pop!
Hooo-weee damn! What fun it had been! America—it was
A country that deserved to die, with a people too stupid
To walk and chew gum. 7:15. When the Zionist gamecock
Got here, W would stand before him, bow, and kiss
His ring—it was their little private game they played.
To discuss tonight? W strapped his brassiere on. Oh yeah, they
Had squashed some burg called Jenin. 60 dead. Nasty business,
But of course those terrorists deserved it. Oh right yeah, and the
Church of the Nativity thing too. Ding-dong the witch is dead. He
Pulled his panty hose over his hips, slipped his dress on, and stepped
Into his high heels just as the door wooshed open, “Mr. President!”
In walked the gamecock, smiling broadly—“or should I say
Madam President!” W smiled daintily and bowed, “I shall
Never let them forget that you’re a man of peace.”
Palaces of oligarchs losing their glitter in due course of time,
And on that day, I and self-assured Truth, down a beckoning sandy trail,
Past an ancient menhir, deserted quay, and an old driftwood rail,
Found ourselves walking as a lonely grebe modulated its cry
Upon the wind, as through the couch grass we stepped, and by
This time I had remembered who he was—the same Truth come again,
The one who as a young boy I had met way back when.
We were a mile or so from town—I could hear the roaring of the sea;
Off in the distance a gong sounded, and into the heart of me
Poured the sun, waxing great, from its palaestra in the sky,
But it was an inner sun, renewed, as Truth turned to me by and by,
And he recognized me too as that same boy from way back when,
For he favored me with a smile as if to say, “Where have you been?”
As the power of sunlight creates fire when focused through a glass,
So with love we reinvigorate this green earth so vast,
Ancient starlight breathing knowledge to the elders and the youth,
While tall oaks grow, lift their shackles, on the day of chocolate truth.
By Richard Edmondson
No comments:
Post a Comment