POEM OF THE DAY BY PETER MICHELSON

In Her Seventh Decade the Priestess of the Dreams

“The news from everywhere’s a gone bad deal
And the Priestess of the Dreams says
It ain’t kabuki Babe, they’re losing it for real…”

Dreams the agonistes of the age
that she’s an antique
doll her face of porcelain but eyes
her eyes are all too real
Her ragged heart pumps plasma
plasma by the barrel
The price is right  She sees it trickle down
“We are Americans
the patriotic people
The Civil War the Spanish War the World War
Korea Granada Vietnam
Nada Nada  It trickles down
The workers work  It trickles down
The workers fast  It trickles down
The great bell tolls


E Coli walks the streets
Muslims eating watermelon in the yard
Patriotic fervor fills the Fourth
Kim Jong Il invites the children in
Their eyes are huge and dark
The mosque explodes all hell erupts
Nada Nada  It trickles down
“We’re still at war”
Nada Nada  It trickles down
The great bell tolls

The Priestess gathers infants in her arms
“I saved hundreds but
what of those who died  I think of that”
It trickles down
She commandeers a train
She fills the cars with children
She leads them through this world
At every checkpoint she declares
her orders from on high
You will not compute these ones
their calculus beyond your profit margin

In each hand a stone
a stone to place upon the bier
I think of that
It trickles down
The great bell tolls

“My drive is to revise Regression’s Law”
Open the gates  Install the orchid beds
the carousels with hyenas gaily lacquered
I think of that
the young one with the baleful eyes
innocent mustache and marginal IQ
He’s out of work
and understandably annoyed
with the hungry child’s squall
slamming her in the manner of
rural women slapping
wet muslin against the stones
I think of that
It trickles down
The great bell tolls

“These are the sympathetic cases”
Nada Nada the Priestess says
Open up the gates
Install the orchid beds
The gaily lacquered carousel
The pools with golden carp
And blossoms bright above the lily pads
In the iris of her eyes the sight
Of children slammed
In the manner of rural women
Slapping wet muslin against the stones
Nada Nada the Priestess moans
She gathers infants in her arms
She commandeers a train
In the iris of her eyes the sight
I think of that
It trickles down
The great bell tolls.


-Peter Michelson