mah maou

(for Jan)

from whence came the mystery of the borsht?
membranous lung laced with mustaches
served in the finest china of the house:
a wooden bowl and wooden spoon
while outside the sun drops displayed
myriad glorious molecules or waves
splashed against wooden backdrops:
ramshackle cabins of soviet construction

oh, to live once again for that summer of ‘68
when fruit vendors and taxi drivers
beat out laborers for their bargains
who beat out executives for the value of their hands
and who were all beat by politik and police

when one fiery blaze electric solstace dared emerge
from the hallowed halls of the National Gallery
and die between white linen sheets in all earthly agony
in protest of the sanctity of the soul of culture of priceless human pride
and pollocks rode the underground express from Warsaw
news of Siwiec still hot on their dry lips

that your sacrifice should not have been in vain
though the machinations spin onwards and ever out
that some may still remember and by death be bound
to say earnestly and always across the dome of their minds:
Fuck the Unfeeling Ones
Fuck the Unfeeling Ones
Fuck the Unfeeling Ones