soundtrack for the collapse of the empire.
part iii.
the maya did not disappear.
they simply abandoned their cities,
and stopped paying tributes to the gods
because they gods had forsaken them,
and their land no longer grew crops.
so that the high class of rulers also starved,
and they too had to leave their temples
and homes and learn to be
just like the people.
so that when the people start to starve…
don’t expect them to pay tribute.
what are you waiting for?
for the people to abandon the empire
because they are already beginning to go hungry.
10.09.11.
Truth, truth, truth. Can’t say it enough.
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And the ones who are not rich and only in some pain, they are bought off and promised off and brushed off…but they keep hoping, even without seeing…how much longer?
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This and the other two sections make this a powerful trilogy. I really like part iii. I think it’s especially important because this last section can stand by itself as a more compact, more simply expressed, therefore maybe more powerful piece if you should decide at one point to present everything the trilogy is saying. It’s a great, powerful ending that can also stand alone as its own poem. Thanks for this.
Sally
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celebrity endorsements
~
let them eat kale
(gluten free)
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Ancient Tombs of Banan
Four very light pebbles attached
to flung-sprung rubber band found
between new laid bricks, retrieved
by mound-viewing haze-gazer reminds
him of the day he gave up that for this.
Tall seeded grasses wave as a group
passes and a small bee buzzes with
interest. The man with no plan sees rice
on the land, chattel by cart, its grain
raked onto black plastic on the road.
Some is still standing, Van Gogh’s yellow
landing between green and smoldering
fields. Ggachis fly by, bales are stacked
high, a rooster lets loose surrounded by
mountains’ shapes feathered in as if Ross
took his two-incher and stroked Payne’s
gray in a jagged horizontal line between
white grading to blue atop, and the
harvester’s fog below. Set free again, he
sits looking at ancient burial homes
so rounded and soft, kept mown, who
knows how, in pairs that excite the
dream of the lonely tractor driver
who precisely gathers the rows. He
leaves tracks for spring’s women to sew.
Here comes a guard atop Folk Museum
to punch his post. He doesn’t look hard
or he’d see the forbidden beer that
mimics the color of one more field’s
cloud that floats by but still notices tears.
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