Degenerate

As an American, I am inclined
to prefer a diluted espresso
over a stiff, thick-black sludge;
though the crema on top
is basically the same

it disappears faster from my coffee.

As an american, it is my duty
to embalm my livestock
while still standing
and gas insects because
they land on my food

I can’t swat them all, you see.

As an ami, my flag is stitched
to my heart, but I would curse
the man who drapes it over
his shoulders or lets it touch
the ground that gives us life:

should I not?


Openness

Open like a book, easy and hard:
hard at first, to draw away from
the television, easy to open it yields
to the human touch, needs only coaxing to crease
the spine

but the book catches on, spreads
its wings more easily each time.

Open, like a clam, forced
open, knifed open: it is still open.
To be open, a clam starts closed,
its muscles are locked and stubborn;

its muscles are cramped
from keeping itself shut
off from the world, churning sand
into pearls and meat into morsel
but nevertheless closed.

Clam up means closed, then opened by force
when the knife hits the right nerve,
but you can read someone like an open
book, that is, easy open.

Open is open,
but: book open or clam
open?


The cult of hello

Hello is dying.
Hello has devolved into hi (though tolerable, it is without
much effort), has devolved into the barely audible huh,
a disgrace.

Hello is a cold
wind off the shoulder of a passerby, a need to assume
that the person would say it if he had the time, or the desire.
But he doesn’t.

Hello is preserved
only by the ancient, but a huh is all they get in return,
an aspiration with slight vocalization is all they probably
hear.