In Vietnam we set the jungle on fire,
The leaves and branches melting like wax,
Candles blown out by blind war
Snuffing out the celebration of life.
I am not a patriot.
I kneel when called to stand
And rise when told to sit still.
I have no respect for flags
And those who wave them.
I saw the rose bloom in thorns, her petals pierced
And bloody, her scent metallic, her countenance,
Once sanguine, sanguine no more, but pained,
Burned by the sun, depressed by the darkness
That since that horrid November had blotted
Out the moon until even the owls ceased to hoot.
I write from bed today:
Charlottesville bleeds, bloody hands
That keep hope at bay
With a smoldering gun and smoldering sands
That pierce the breast and burn the feet
Of those who from injustice ne’er retreat.
America was born mulatto, stillborn
But for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,
Aphorisms written in blood with hands trembling,
Terrified of the dark engine that drove
America, how I thought I knew thee well!
Land of the West, of golden gleaming hope,
Of the People’s answer to Dante’s hell;
We who with freedom and slavery cope.
The fatal flaw is clear to those who look
(But o, we did not wish to look!):
To proclaim one thing but do another,
To promise riches and then plunder
The promise with a smile and a look
I am a Jew.
I have been a ship turned away
To face the cold spray
Of a cloudy ocean, fetid train,
Windowless chamber full of gas.
In polite society we hold doors open,
Say thanks and please, wear crisp
Suits when we drop bombs.
The pen is mightier than the sword—but not today.
When bombs explode, words turn to shrapnel
Like a lover’s demands left to the dead to obey,
A kiss carried off in death’s putrid satchel.