Hands clasped greedily,
sincerely, they stand before us as representatives of the word,
full of character,
righteous and zealous.
We raptly watch
the holy men with the holy books against holy chests as they stand in holy places,
the rapacious leader, the demagogue, the covetous
preaching and declaiming so solemnly, so magnificently,
basking, aggrandizing their ethics and godliness,
forgetting,
they stand on pulpits, lecterns and rostrums,
erected on the bones and blood of the dead,
the disappeared.
Ashed to ashes dusted to dust -
they died on the stake the pyre the sword the knife;
slaughtered
in some god’s name -
kukulcan zeus odin allah yahweh buddha god marx mao money
some movement crusade jihad holy undertaking
for land money gold jewels oil power glory civilization.
Murdered
by the millions,
the trillions;
it is a jumble of maddening numbers
running through my head,
a historic disease
with no cure.
We are singularly and collectively, guilty
I think in a quick burst of rebellion until I once again, succumb to the ennui,
no longer able to listen to the silent screams
echoing in my brain,
or the audible ones.
It is so much easier to be righteous and full of
character
ethics
godliness
so full of shit
when the dead have no voice.
Having forgotten how to read,
watching history unfold as 30 second sound bites,
we can pretend to be men
of loudly proclaimed peaces,
pieces of flotsam,
in a bloody stream of screams a river of gore
that has echoed through man’s tenure on earth.
Finally
I titter, insane laughter erupting
(we must be all insane or suicidal)
in a raucous hysterical explosion
at the hypocrisy
as I sit in this holy building with the other holy people,
praising kukulcan zeus odin allah yahweh buddha god marx mao money
religion and god intertwined and forced by spear arrow gun tank missile
straight down pagan throats
compelled to become
ashes to ashes dust to dust.
We are all guilty I tell you
even the slaughtered are guilty;
I huddle down amongst the herd
keeping my place as we race mindlessly,
only to plummet over the holy precipice,
and we cravenly bellow our innocence,
telling all as we fall
we did not know.
I am
too tired
to scream
anymore
knowing that I too am guilty.
