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08/19/08 - (2)
Café Manhattan Eight years into the twenty-first century, Seven eternities of feast and famine, Beyond that eleventh day of September, in Manhattan,
When the planes came roaring in, out of Islamic skies, And the twin prides of America's financial world Cascaded to Wall Street's concrete, in crying flames,
I sit, back in my isolated booth, this Tuesday night, In a desolate neighborhood restaurant Ironically named Café Manhattan, and meditate,
Trying to catch my breath, Contemplate the irreversible damage George W. Bush has inflicted on America's reputation,
Its credibility as a country devoted to promoting humanity, Not advocating death to the planet. Yet all I can deduce, postulate, for my cogitation,
Is that we, a once-proud, -peaceful, -decent people, Are fucked up beyond all recognition — FUBAR, as we used to acronym it,
When Lyndon Baines Johnson, another feral Texan, Couldn't invoke executive privilege, To keep himself from burning in hell
For his lies about the carpet-bombing of Vietnam, Its trial by Agent Orange, While the public felt totally, helplessly bewildered.
Tonight, not a month before the seventh anniversary Of the 9/11 calamity, I see Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Russia festering
And get the apocalyptic shivers and chills, Slip into a paroxysm of panic attacks, nausea, Terrified that the sky is about to topple America.
I'm not sure I'll be able to leave this café, alive, Make it home, pull the sheets over my head, Let alone sleep, survive my nightmares,
Awaken into a day, a nation, civilization Resurrected from the ruins of Bush's Satanic rampage. I can't even eat what could be my last supper.
08/19/08 - (2)
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