Retrieved From Flood Water

I can't find the edited re-draft of this, but I remember it was better.

Contemplating Mercy

Abstract:

This is experimental justice-
words in the furnace - ones
that prodded and nagged - we
upheld out relationship to the flag.
He whose stripes were earned in spades-
stars and crests, the texture of freedom,
woven with stiff, blackened fingers.
We sung songs in graveyards with
men still living.
Then, the dead sound at morning, we logged our findings then.
We made maps, again and again. The stubborn reshaping globe allows a good man
no rest.

Baba Yaga was a kind old woman,
who upheld all our sacred maxims,
she lived in secrecy and silence
and kept young children for company,
whom she scared - to show them the
importance of suspicion and the resolve
only fear can allow.

Intermittent resolution:

one day i will remove all our quotations
and dismantle our disclaimers,
in some heroic search for a modern truth-
one day i will awake in the sunlight
and wade through the crowds and
be unafraid of my father's name-
the world will be harmonious-
i will say you and talk about me and
you will understand - Brave steps towards
an end I saw in a dream:
thalidomide soldiers and cocaine intellectuals
striving together to resurrect the vigilant past.

on my condition:

im driving with wet breaks
wincing and hoping for the best
im enjoying scenery obscured
by metal grates and looking up-
there's something in seeing only half
i find temporarily amusing

i like the sound of words like
justice mercy cajole catch and release

Coco Rico

I heard the rooster cry out, but the
Smell – once again – eluded me.
Waiting for the song to beat along
The rocks and bracing for the rush of
Sudden pressure, I was watching the cows
Lying on their sides and all the other omens.
I waited for the rain. I longed for the flood,
And wanted to hear the song along the
Gravel pits – slamming on the curb, they go
A-trickling, down, down into the sewer.

My mother’s morbid streak allowed me
To imagine myself parched– sticking
My feet into the sand and sweating ash until
I could name the smell that spelt the end of my
Desire – suddenly my father said: “Be rational”.
In the humid summer the kids are getting along,
Keeping up, till’ rain and nights are gone.

Jesse Borg, 2009

Peace,
from the warzone,
jesse.

(i didn't have time to edit - sorry. maybe i will later)