and now, for something completely different

for a little change of pace, here's a poem i wrote today about the war when i didn't feel like studying for business. it ain't revised, because i don't feel like doing that either, but hell, here it is:

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perhaps the drums i hear at night
are the newly dead coming back from the war.
they scatter under dishonest stars
toward houses which no longer recognize them,
dodging SUVs full of blind people
with little flags along the road.

perhaps the thunder i hear at night
is the newly dead coming back from the war
dropping their drums around the white house.
perhaps the silence i hear at night
is them stopping, and slowly beginning to pity the president,
who eats his shame for a midnight snack
while gently petting the little dog inside him,
who constantly barks out, ‘you’re a failure.’
perhaps they realize
he cannot help but stumble around pushing things;
he blusters because he was never taught to count,
and now must spend the rest of his days
not listening to the deafening voices of the world
saying, “you are a stupid man.”

perhaps the rustling I hear at night
are the newly dead coming back from the war,
pushing around in the leaves i never raked last fall
in search of a kiss buried, or a hatchet
with which to stage a rebellion. Perhaps the voices
i hear at night are the voices of the newly dead
coming back from the war, calling out to the living
in their red, white and blue surprises,
talking about that day on the seesaw, that night in the kitchen,
the blood in the moonlight by the waterfront,
with only a little time, pressed for forgiveness.