Conquered in the Recovery,
I wanted to serve a down & out Lord
who thought men should love enemies,
turn other cheeks while black-hoods covered
faces, Heroes formed pyramids of naked flesh
dogs revealed 3-inch teeth to other shepherds –
Even then, no matter, enemies be my brothers,
they must be loved,
and I willed to feed even vultures who once stalked
Twin Tower top-floor, “Going down, going down”
cackled a recorded elevator voice,
and not recognizing nationality anymore,
spoon-fed Judith Miller and George Tenet lies,
to Cuba I go down, on paddle-boat, and Dreiser’s
healthy Clyde Griffith must row, pay for flesh sins.
Somewhere in Caribbean,
facing east toward Oswiecim, once a mafia Fun-House,
Clyde peered through Ahab’s telescope,
he saw Camp X-Ray prisoners receiving I. V.s,
I praised fate ten-years ago, a commitment to uphold vows,
an IDEOLOGY,
“watch what you do, watch what you say,”
and with ease I did so, and blood flowed in Fallujah,
in return I got cases of Miller Lite, Obamacare,
but my mutilated God wanted love of enemies,
even those spear-chuckers atop Golgotha.
A cross and three spikes got Him quiet.
In my sack, 1960s Green Stamps from A&P,
a Slim-Jim survival package never opened since Kent State,
and Clyde went over-board, he heard Liz Taylor beckon
from Havana shore, Islamic evil-doers in sight,
I heard Allah-prayer and screams
prisoners could no longer handle pain & humiliation,
but according to Shrub, they “wanted to kill us,”
and I must love and feed them Monsanto seed, Wise chips.
(Had no bitter drinks with which to wet their lips)
Once inside Camp X-Ray,
having slipped past Hammurabi Code-guards,
armed-Constitutions, and sleeping Geneva Conventions,
I entered a vacant cell, a sign, “Once in, nothing gets out.”
Cuban sky bright that night, Fidel still radiated,
J.F.K. and Khrushchev friends after all that blockade,
I opened my last Slim-Jim, chewed slow,
knowing War on Terror’s going to be a long one,
I screamed, Hey there, Mohamed, stop being a swine,
can you pass the I.V.-pipe to me?