“Hitler’s Mother’s Eyes”
The finer strokes are hardened now, abandoned, put away
With fine tipped pens and rich rhetoric delicacies
Of touch that dance in satins in the margins, intricacies
Of form no longer sharpened somehow blurred in recent days,
An odd obscurity cocooned in saffron moods of comfort.
I linger now behind
The door before I join the others in the queue if I am there at all.
I shall not be missed, nor will I keep the lists of midnight calls
That come too late to birth an interest and not at all on time
To make a difference in the greater scheme of things.
I’ll not expire, no. But, what exactly do you say
I’m missing in the fray, my friend? I’m no one’s “by the way.”
My house was sold some time ago; I rent the coterie of my days.
So if the sentiment’s removed from hill to shore and back again
to claim the right-of-way
Tomorrow, or in some new guash and interplay
within a Chinese fan― speak gently to the hand―
And when it dries, you’ll find me sitting where I was
when all of this began.
But then we always knew the score. The hidden wars along the left
Of pages in the history book, the marble records etch so little
Of the terrors of the kill, the whim and wanderlust,
the spin and spittle
Of the needle pointing to a second Khan or city states bereft
Of arms to hold the tide and teeming hoards
That threaten Po or Elbe; the Pyrenees or just another Hannibal
With elephants. Attila drives his chariots south
inspiring concert halls
Of future profiteers and Shermans
with a thousand bonfires to the sea.
The streets of Ord,
Nebraska rest with apathetic sycophants that speak of holocausts
among the Czechs back home while calmly nesting through it all.
To they who will in time read pages to the right,
We see the facts and figurative interpolation for a future night
Of chimæras distracting wallflowers at the mall with outraged calls
To arms against a swarm of pharaohs
that were never there to drown
Or talk of how a string of street gangs
brought the tallest buildings down.
Hitler’s mother’s eyes were modestly disguised
As she was wont to gaze at him intently―
Someone dear forgot to tell him something. Veils we re rent
At last in her and visible restraints she’d only vaguely exercised
Along with patience at the table―a little late for her and most of us.
And in that first November Kristallnacht,
there came the tests, malevolent,
The spark and germ of newly minted acolytes of thunder
scarcely banning headlines of a covenant
Between their suit of clubs and diamonds over hearts
and using spades in all that fuss.
No one knew, of course, but all applauded;
wreathes in memory hang proudly now on every door
Along with ribbons and a vision of some future August mushroom
there along an Asian shore.
Dissent, perhaps, but as King Richard found
when Bolingbroke was crowned,
“The truth is one, the ignorant have but multiplied…”;
the stage is primed for clowns
And living puppets, the genuine anointed;
the exorcised are those who’ve gone before
Disguised in crowds and adulation,
what amounts to flatulence within the masses
Pulling strings to serve a braying herd of half a million asses.