Children of the Wasteland

To be screamed from the rooftops, with emphatic rage:

Wake up, everything you’ve been told
is a lie; I had to see it first
with my own eyes
the cries of Palestinian children, generations wiped out
with depleted uranium
buildings bombed out, not a single gun in em
And if I told you why—Could you ever look again
at the sidewalk’s end as you crawl again
through the day, a slave
to the institution
that’s selling weapons of Mass Depopulation
to the bloodiest blind Anti-Christ I’ve seen in my time?

You know, Christ is in Islam, too,
he’s a gentle guy, who turned the money changer’s tables on their ends–
there is no difference, in my opinion.
Whether you believe and follow
Jesus, Buddha, Mohammad, Vishnu
Quetzaquatl or the Goddess–I know that NONE of them
would condone this mess. So tell me. Is it genocide?

For a people without a land found a land
With a people–
where only 400 years before,
there were mosques, synagogues, and steeples,
side by side without thought to the pride
of a Promised Land. So tell me,
Was that kid born with a gun in his hand?
Did he threaten you, when you kept food from him?
When you caged him, did he throw a bomb?
Is he deserving of a war crime?

Because those phosphorus shells you use so well
to cloak your planes and reign down hell
ARE a war crime, when you drop them on civilians–
and Gaza is a human time bomb
of 1.5 million. Half of them are children.
My, sounds a bit like a pogram, if you ask me.
A place where members of a single race
are rounded up like cattle and left to face
life with no aid, and God forbid they blow up your blockade
to let food, water, shelter, or medical aid come in.

You’ll just remind them.
Air strike them again, like you did
on November 4, 2008–send in those planes,
Yahweh, while the whole world was looking the other way.
You took the chance, seized the day.
But your strength is one of fire and shells.
You think you can rebuild the Temple, bring back hell?
Don’t you think it’ll be a lonely place?
Without the ideas and songs of another race? I do.
I hope I never see the day
when we can’t remember that there were different ways to pray
in some lost life we knew,
before the wake.

This entry was posted on January 10, 2009 at 6:18 pm and is filed under Uncategorized with tags gaza, poem about gaza, poem about genocide, poem about palestine, poetry, the wake, wake up. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.