The Wind Carried Away The Cotton Wool by Charles Joseph

For Federico Garcia Lorca

When in Spain I touched a cobblestone
touched by the blood of martyrs
and never did I imagine
that the work of a bevy of bullets
could strike my soul with so much force
traveling all the way to me from the past
but it did, and it still does.

So since I can easily be erased
and you can easily be erased
I’m sure we can all agree
that a poetic death doesn’t really exist
regardless of how much a country
tries to whitewash their history.

Because sooner or later
a beautiful museum will be erected
and it will be filled with all of
the bones they’ve collected
and tickets will be sold by the pound
because a good old fashioned
death is a joy forever —
until you are the one who’s been
blindfolded and murdered.

Jackals of All Trades Masters of None by Charles Joseph

 

To some it is the dawn of a new age
a time to pilfer what’s already been pilfered
an opportunity to fill up the old war chest
while we fight amongst ourselves
confused, bewildered, and afraid.

It is a tactic well used throughout history
and they know this better than you and I
because they were raised to believe
that Armageddon is their birthright
and although there is no X penciled in
on their Gregorian calendars—

they know their ATOMIC-GOD looms
but they are not afraid of it
because they created it
just in case the meek decide
that it is finally time
to inherit the earth.