< Issue 5 >
Wind Cries
by Tim Hudenburg
I.
Walls
They are building
a newer, securer office building
right off the parkway.
Extra security, real official
nice and tight,
as subtle as a wall
or fence can be,
a shell, but to keep what out
or to clutch what in:
Terrorists,
thoughts,
maps,
overlays,
x-rays,
or other obscured secrets?
Try as they might,
but those treacherous things
subsequently, difficult to keep,
so the soaring trees had to go
swaying just so
evident before those reflective windows
The wind surely will be harder to stop.
It whispers so,
but who might be listening,
will security ever know?
II.
What the Wind Heard
The wind always knows
going about gathering up
each day's terrors and moans
exorcising the one or multitude,
within its path.
How long it remembered,
what we long forgot
since abandoning that ability
to listen, to comprehend
crying winds.
Certainly we could before,
but no longer can we withstand
such piercing primeval onslaught.
The manual says:
Drown it out.
The captive’s mind is like a drawer,
compartmentalized.
All we need to fear,
or know, is
which tool does what, where.
Sleep deprivation loves
a good frontal lobe.
Water boarding sows wonders.
Cerebral cortex excites panic.
Too choked up to talk?
I hear
a fired bullet or a bad break
blatant as a wounded knee.
III.
Bad Medicine
We excel
let's not kid ourselves:
Deceit in our non-descriptiveness.
Marvels of modern disingenuousness.
Science creates subtle facades,
Palladian windows
latest miracle of mirrored glass.
The island of Murano
sure would be proud,
surprised to see such architectural finery
near a Reston strip mall.
Gee. I can see myself
in that building.
Frigid rooms for chilling effect.
Cold air raises a goose
pimple brought up
one at first, but then
ten million, million screams
a bump for each, kicking up maledictions;
vapor contrails serrate a reddening sky.
Even the rabbits
too wary at dusk, scare too easily.
Passing time at days end,
Haunted dead,
dead to rights,
might one day dance
without hard feeling
at Abu Ghraib,
Guantanamo Bay,
or nearer to here.
Later some yet to come
cautionary shaman or sachem
sniffing the breeze
might declare this hollow ground--
bad medicine.
Hearing the accursed cries,
and worthier yet,
he knew to answer them.
Wind Cries
by Tim Hudenburg
I.
Walls
They are building
a newer, securer office building
right off the parkway.
Extra security, real official
nice and tight,
as subtle as a wall
or fence can be,
a shell, but to keep what out
or to clutch what in:
Terrorists,
thoughts,
maps,
overlays,
x-rays,
or other obscured secrets?
Try as they might,
but those treacherous things
subsequently, difficult to keep,
so the soaring trees had to go
swaying just so
evident before those reflective windows
The wind surely will be harder to stop.
It whispers so,
but who might be listening,
will security ever know?
II.
What the Wind Heard
The wind always knows
going about gathering up
each day's terrors and moans
exorcising the one or multitude,
within its path.
How long it remembered,
what we long forgot
since abandoning that ability
to listen, to comprehend
crying winds.
Certainly we could before,
but no longer can we withstand
such piercing primeval onslaught.
The manual says:
Drown it out.
The captive’s mind is like a drawer,
compartmentalized.
All we need to fear,
or know, is
which tool does what, where.
Sleep deprivation loves
a good frontal lobe.
Water boarding sows wonders.
Cerebral cortex excites panic.
Too choked up to talk?
I hear
a fired bullet or a bad break
blatant as a wounded knee.
III.
Bad Medicine
We excel
let's not kid ourselves:
Deceit in our non-descriptiveness.
Marvels of modern disingenuousness.
Science creates subtle facades,
Palladian windows
latest miracle of mirrored glass.
The island of Murano
sure would be proud,
surprised to see such architectural finery
near a Reston strip mall.
Gee. I can see myself
in that building.
Frigid rooms for chilling effect.
Cold air raises a goose
pimple brought up
one at first, but then
ten million, million screams
a bump for each, kicking up maledictions;
vapor contrails serrate a reddening sky.
Even the rabbits
too wary at dusk, scare too easily.
Passing time at days end,
Haunted dead,
dead to rights,
might one day dance
without hard feeling
at Abu Ghraib,
Guantanamo Bay,
or nearer to here.
Later some yet to come
cautionary shaman or sachem
sniffing the breeze
might declare this hollow ground--
bad medicine.
Hearing the accursed cries,
and worthier yet,
he knew to answer them.
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