Here Again

Here again in pitched battle
before these gates of beauty,
from the winds, gathering
on this exhausted plain --
crows coming home to feast
on the decaying memory
of all that has been stolen.

And these towering walls --
conceived by gluttonous hearts,
raised by covetous hands,
Fortified the by fear of everything
that doesn’t flow
from a sterilized, factory-sealed
prepackaged truth --
stretch toward the ineffable
begging to be sacked.

The battle plan?
A simple retrofit,
a tip-o-the-hat to all the past failures
from whose blood springs
heartache's torrents.

Or could it be
something more –
a new world order:
earth scorched,
sewn with salt,
ransacked and scattered
to the winds?

The merchants are again
inside the temple,
frightened and armed to the teeth,
forgetting who it was
that last drove them out,
threatening to unleash
war preemptive
(with a truth so precious
it must be classified).

And the men with the abacus are pissed
at all the partying over in Canaan.
After the never ending board meeting,
they steam, "What kind of Jehovah is this?
Shouldn’t he be
sharing his twelve step formula for success
(never mind healing the sick);
instead, he's squandering
all this god-given potential,
these precious gifts --
oil drizzled over dusty feet.”

"Isn’t it high time we strung the bastard up?
Nail him good this time,
no more forgiving and forgetting…”

”Bring on the foreman --
Mr. lifetime-achievement-award-bestower,
come to dispense with the small talk,
bearing regime change and contracts for everyone,
just a little something to get 'em on board,
shut 'em up,” give the score keepers time
to chalk up another win
before we execute our
carefully vetted, polled and focus-grouped,
hands-washed-of-all-guilt
exit strategy (coordinated
for maximum television coverage,
of course).

You see, it appears
that you and I have been harboring terrorists again,
outlawed notions, ungovernable ideas.

And this Sunday -- as with every Sunday --
pulpits will be pounded,
and the news roundtables will pontificate
our leaders as saints.

Yet, on this plain,
the hoards continue to gather,
unwashed and unshaven,
breaking curfew,
milling about with no discernable
means of regular employment,
trampling the well-kept lawns --
wanna-be Vandals, Visigoths
praying that Paris -- forgotten
for dead-- has returned,
hoping that Hannibal,
still unnoticed, circles 'round behind,
knowing full well
that the certain reward
of the life of the sword
is life no more --

a small price to pay, don't you think,
seeing as how Achilles’ forgets his heel?