Born Somewhere Near A Sign

14 Feb

Born some­where near a sign,
torn num­ber one son to pegged num­ber one daugh­ter,
born unbriefed, debriefed, fed, ouervre fed, fan­cy links to pat­tern I would keep,
fum­bling first busi­ness day after Chief Ike sinks his chancy putt to leap…

The old fair­way gen­er­al defends 27 rounds the cal­i­brat­ing duf­fer,

post­ing benign Den­ver nod to his card, no man tougher,
friend to George S. Pat­ton, pres­i­den­t’s heart fails again
this time no secret, at the house of Doud,
mod­est home to mod­est Mamie’s par­ents,
after the minks go cold. Ike an ill man,
bril­liant sol­dier to dod­dling ruined nations,
qui­et eagle, his bril­liant apti­tude
not unlike gold­en creeds, nary an omen
(for what have I to do with Den­ver
or Fri­day after­noon pres­i­dents)
too soon, now long buried—
new­ly plea­sured speeds,
first ful­ly auto­mat­ed breeds,
blan­ket­ed by unpa­tri­ot­ic screeds,
(this was the Fifties, after all)
enu­mer­at­ing the longest sea­son…

Stock exchange sheds 14 bil­lion dol­lars fol­low­ing Mon­day,
don’t need to be bro­ker or a bak­er in a two sto­ry bunker
to real­ize then and some­times now that’s still a lot of dough
obliv­i­ous to the shred­ding of Sep­tem­ber shillings,
free range mis­siles, vit­a­min rich, sticky pla­cen­ta
cool as an old school bik­er poet­’s hacien­da
that same day…

Market recov­ery proved this tum­ble noth­ing more,
one of those clas­sic sin­gu­lar events out for the score. Firm
smil­ing all white Air Force nurs­es sure­ly the neat­est,
most of the man­ners were breed­ing not train­ing,
chick­ens and eggs the plur­al oasis, fairest of keen crea­tures
(I’m no more sor­ry you don’t under­stand than you are in expect­ing me to stop
polic­ing your trash with that oth­er snip­pet I found, lat­est flash crop)
melt­ing into sand cas­tles, cocoa but­tered glass­es, West Palm Beach mys­ter­ies
in surly 1955 panoply, unbuck­ling to meet jol­ly ad cam­paign stan­dards
lost in sud­den sur­pris­es reworked for our sun­belt tomor­row…

Lib­er­ty’s seen evi­dence that some­one snapped a pic­ture,
but pub­lic­i­ty was mum,
awk­ward tenor of the times,
but I Like Ike was ail­ing. Hard. First fee­ble steps
nego­ti­at­ed (for­get the Rus­sians) a whole month lat­er,
and ver­i­ly, ver­i­ly, plumb Dick Nixon unex­pect­ed­ly
now a prime num­ber,

a quick bit­ter decade still in progress,
crit­i­cal Left Bank uni­fied as an ever­green,
like a bar­rel-chest­ed barstool trans­mo­gri­fied
into nation­al trai­tor,

but Ike warned us clear­ly, Watch Out!
scorn that dou­ble blind M‑I-C clout,
qua­dren­ni­al flow­ers on stage, min­i­mum wage,
com­pet­ing with well-pre­pared lies, worth­less pap,
announc­ing this pri­mal rebel­lion of New Amer­i­ca.

Heard enough fad fan­tasies of free­dom to clock her fade,
seen enough mad sol­diers chok­ing on pover­ty to crack no grenade,
‘coz the proof I sought, the proof I fought, the proof I ought
to have earned at birth found me dis­sat­i­fied
the same hour I died on the page.

[2012, Wash­ing­ton DC ]

© 2012 — 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

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"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""