The system
workplaces hum
with want of money
our design for destruction
bled the present better
than any noon
when all is done we have done
little worse than the mad
Angry poems
Angry poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
the first rose
to rise perused
our joy, wages,
wear and tear
the war that we take for
a better red flower
the cut-over bed
In shadblow time
The last cattails lose their upholstery
in shadblow time
Men in camouflage work their turkey calls
in shadblow time
I found a flattened snake curled like an ampersand
in shadblow time
I read about the army interrogator who put a bullet through her head
in shadblow time
The world first learned about Abu Ghraib
in shadblow time
Oh sweet Canada Canada Canada sings the white-throated sparrow
in shadblow time
The shocking red of the first tanager
in shadblow time
The talk shows were full of rage
in shadblow time
Undead
If the dead can’t rest,
it’s because we won’t let them.
We storm,
we harry,
we decry,
we implore.
We make them star
in our horror shows
for that surge of adrenalin
that lets us know
we’re alive —
as if they our dear departed
were the ones out for blood.
Back to School (coda)
You never noticed the fine
print on the box
your school arrived in:
some disassembly required.
It’s a learning experience, though,
no doubt. First
you must discard all the memories
in separate, government-
approved locations,
then extract your transcripts as if
they were nests of copper wire
& lengths of pipe
to be shipped off to China.
The bricks must be given passing grades
so they can advance
to the next life. Then
Poem for Display in a Municipal Building
Abandon hype, ye who enter
these sound-proofed rooms:
you can fight City Hall all you want, really,
provided that your words
are bland as water & promise
jobs—drip—development—drip—growth—drip.
Open bribes will not be tolerated.
The voters expect transparency
& paper trails, sometimes even
the anodyne of a Town Hall meeting
where one by one they can stand
& state their names for
the record, that stagnant pool
that reflects everything
but their weariness, their anger,
the way their hands rise
Poem for Display at a City Reservoir
Attention suicides: please have the consideration
to drown elsewhere. It is not that your body
would be especially toxic — that’s a myth.
But what we crave in water is an absence of taste,
not the taste of absence.
Also, kindly make sure your water bill is paid up.
It’s the least you can do for your neighbors,
who will soon probably be needing to recharge
their own reservoirs, those brown or blue pools
in which on occasion you may have glimpsed yourself,
smaller than life.
Thoughts and prayers
the news
touching us
too mad for madness
touching her child
they bury us
day and night
escape lies
in the ground
among other people
Rocker
I harbor a war
in my music
an ordinary yes
can kill a child
Making history
reading for memory’s sake
a history of the present
I make changes to it
you a child still
and me in an office
pickled in wine and rage
Unequal access
seven businessmen rattle out
their seven thoughts
death giving them
what they please
a piece of hot salt beef
some brown bread and brandy
and we make little
but desire better
live only an hour
carry fire into our graves
Owner ship
an ark in a white room
like the heart in a king
dead for all
his anger bread
and management so ungrateful
as to put a wren out of work
under the want of money
is a place that disobliges
people not able to do
what they desire to it
who chase a place like a world
broken in pieces
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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