Two Poems


And as Macbeth,

cursed by a charmed life,

so, too, those who

lose by winning,

trammeled by their own parade

through the victory arches,

hung by their own medals,

cut by the blade that knights them,

outed by triumph

with a glorious crown of


at their backs,

fattened by the spoils of war

so that they drunkenly sleep

at their victory feasts

while cannibal forces creep within

to exact the pound of flesh

rendered by such gluttonous winning.

And so, too, as Icarus kissing the


and plunging headlong into the sea;

as Oedipus, blinded by his own


and stumbling into a fate worse than the

Sphinx ’s fangs —

so as these do such victors

lose all

through their breathless exultation.

See there?  Upon distant hill?

Sisyphus pushes his boulder up the

Stygian causeway,

thinking himself at the summit

of Mt. Olympus,

but soon tumbles down

with the weight of the trophy

he has won

for fooling the gods.

Just so are we all crowned

with knots upon our heads

in moments of glorious


Over 70 Million Voices

“We need fresh blood, ”

they say, “for the

millstone of theocracy,

fresh blood whereby our

Old Testament god

may wet his bread

in the ichor of innocence,

dribbling crimson droplets

from his idiot ’s grin,

enough to drown democracy

and baptize America anew

with the biblical ideals

of covenants old.

The earth must be purified

with fire, ” they add,

“and even our charred bones shall

make flour

for our god ’s covetous appetite.

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