Polemic in the Morning

Nightscape in Empire

Sometimes it

feels as if we are

making a last stand,

spread around the

globe like soulless

parasites attached

to the defenseless,

suicidal and unborn

in descending darkness.

We have made

too many enemies

to fall back now,

adorned with lies;

our goodwill blackened

out by a painter

adding a night sky

to a canvass depicting

the relentless fall 
of good sense and
the rise of enmity. 

The hysteria has

boiled up in our blood,

a green stream

trickling through the

the body politic;

our chemotherapy is

comprised of bullets

and drone strikes.

Our heart is weak,

run through with toxic

deployments on

every continent,

in every land; we have

become killers seeking

something, anything

to murder for money.

Our old-fashioned

utopian dreamers who left
the mainstream years ago

grow sicker and begin to

heave, lose their hair,

groan and imagine an

end that shouldn't have

carried this weight,

this maddening pain.

We made too many

enemies and now we

must suffer like a

drinker who didn't

quit until it was too late,

like a driver who didn't

slow down at the end

of the road and crashed

through somebody's

gate and flower beds,

through a modest house,

before turning upside

down in a ditch,

tires spinning,

gas fumes spilling;

three or more dead, another

night in another country.

TS