I find it unnatural, cruel even,
that the tooth must break
the gum to crown,
as if for the sake of glory
something must bleed,
must break.
Little white soldier
in that troop of the mouth;
enameled ruin
of the little red plain,
you appear with your trademark
ache from that horizon of the body
where the rot of the empire throbs
in collision with light.
Your bayonet breaks
through defenseless flesh;
your empire crests
like a wave.
And in that critical edge, slowly,
you grow
into your "wisdom".
The tongue, like a pope, must continue
its work of diplomacy
oscillating between teeth and gum
though the damage is as linear as a blade
of grass that breaks the earth for light.
The ruin of the soil is collateral
in the plants’ policy of living.
In every place I have found beauty,
I have found, also,
something in search of glory,
shedding its compassion like a coat—
like Congo, its cobalt mines tainted
with the empire's capital curse;
like the Middle Eastern lands
with their oil wells raped into blood.
I am looking away from nature,
its sacrilege of blood on ice,
from that essence of man
which concerns itself with conquest,
towards heaven where,
at least, my pain is mine.
To inherit heaven, I killed no man,
I cheated no brother of mine;
I forfeited, instead, my living
for a life of ink and paper;
lived as a poem in defiance
of ruin. In the time of genocide,
I existed as a petition for peace.