Schools render
history a glossy
thing like shiny
car commercials
that ignore
pollution and
the mangled
wrecks and
the dead piled
up on the
side of the road,
a history devoid
of the stench
and ripped flesh
and the cries
of the tortured,
a history turned,
instead, into
another
Hollywood
blockbuster
watched with
buckets of popcorn
in mall theaters
coast-to-coast;
history as palliative,
then, as patriotic
music, as cover
for the dark
deeds
of assassins,
a blood history
of theft, a lying
history proudly
singing the
national anthem
before every
school assembly
with the young
at attention,
obedient, waiting
their turn.