Rude Enabler

December 17, 2004

It's funny to think
all the appetites were wrong.
When the players are questioned
they jump,
but eventually arrive

sweating in their field glasses,
seeing it all through a vaseline sheen
which is unpleasant,
but not like a core of uncooked dough.
One has to remember,

when one chooses. Same time
one thinks it's the beginning
of a semblance of good humor
that could be worn
in times of emergency,

like when brand new helicopters fail
to land on a matchstick
hidden in the rubbish of a football field
long after the scare tactic
has ended.

The scare was like a tonic, some
admixture of chemical pollutants
that influenced the vote.
The telegram was frank:
Feel like you're sitting

on the outside of a gang
of sailors
slapping themselves silly
in the tropical heat,
glowing with the same rude health

of uncounted lives, numberless vistas
trampled in their uncouth care.
Famished,
there is nothing left to do
but surrender, and gawk at the way

the gales leave all the students
dead in piles.
Last time you arrived
in hell, there were homes left to be rented
and spoils in each of the piles.