Ok . . .
Ok, this is where I draw the line in the sand.
I don't even know if this is true,
But I imagine it is.
It comes with a true-enough ring to it.
Turning dingoes into time-bombs,
Animals as bombs . . .
Is this really new?
Or am I just waking up
from a dream
On the porch of a nursing home,
And I am gagging on my spittle
Because I'm dehydrated and
Because the sun just
cleared the edge of the porch roof
And it is as if someone removed my blindfold
And I find myself bound to a stake
Facing five men pointing rifles at my heart.
And everything just came
together for me,
In this dream about explosive dingoes.
I'm a Native American about to take a drink from a bottle
And I pour out the first sip to the earth for the ancestors and
When the liquid hits the
ground it sends up a little puff of dust,
A little mushroom cloud and
Now I am a mother giving birth. I am my mother,
And I'm giving birth to myself.
And I am horrified and saddened
Because I am so old and weak!
And now it is 2030
And I am a bitter old
fool warped by years and years of
Outrage and disgust with what human beings
Are capable of. And it was all predictable!
Nothing could have stood up to what I would witness in my life.
I think my frown is older
than my intrinsic smile.
Everyone has heard of Nagasaki but who remembers the name of the city
That was the preferred target that was passed over
Because it happened to be under a cloud?
And now I am remembering
how much I loved dingoes when I was little
Because they looked like little golden dogs.
And I am thinking, People!
You cannot be my people!
How did this happen,
That you are there, exploding everything I love
And I am here? And I want to slap you
Just like an abusive father would slap his child
And I want to slap you
again and again
For the dingoes, for bombing Nagasaki
And everything you have done, and will do
That breaks my heart over and over and over.