A delicate filament
strung between small poles
glows, grows warm
with the stuttered flow
of electrons.

The wing-beaten air
fills with moths
forsaking the stars.
No wonder there are
so many small deaths
along the window frame.

Someone is bound
to make a phone call
that has an impact
on the direction
of current events,
even if it interrupts-
I don't know.

I am tired of the arguments
on what is right
and wrong, moral
and immoral.  There
is just "do" or "don't do"
and whether I participate.

All "Signs" are coincidence
and interpretation, possibly
the lack of courage
to say "It is my decision.
I am responsible."

There are young men
cleaning fine sand
out from the metallic
mechanisms of their M-16s,
preparing to kill
to protect their country
in a far off land,
the cradle of civilization.

There is no more laughter
in Baghdad.  There is no way
to raise the dead who tremble
at the passing birds' shadows
that could be a missile
heading for-
I don't know where.

I have heard of blinders
and tunnel vision, but
I need an expression
for what it is
when one does not listen.

I need a word that means
this pent up frustration I feel
that slowly leaks through
my fingers to these lines
at not being heard.  I wonder
if it is the same feeling
minorities have felt
for the centuries
of this country's existence?

Off the sidewalk, under the rain,
lie the cut pieces of a photo ID-
the word American is blacked out,
censored.

I thought, by now, the janitorial staff
would have put an OUT OF ORDER sign
on the doors to congress, because
there is so much shit to clean up.
But expectations are often unmet
when unrealistic or not couched
in the proper prayers
backed up by demonstrable actions.

There are men loading Daisy Cutters
into big air planes-an odd name
for such a gigantic bomb.

"Billy loves Erin," is written
on the men's room stall,
fourth from the sinks.
IT'S A SIGN!  Love
is in the toilet, or at least
in such a close proximity
that it is dirty with microbes
massing on the borders
of our skin to attack
and defeat white blood cells
in an effort to live
with greater resources
close by intestines.

I thought we could bring
enough peer pressure to bear
upon our representatives
so that they would not act
in discordance with
"We the People." 

I am stunned
that all my phone calls
met recorded messages, busy signals
and non-answers.

With all the streetlights out,
the moths seek again
the moon, the stars,
fatten bats flying by radar.

This trip back to natural ways
for the moths is possible, because the bulb
I thought we empowered as president
has a broken filament-all
that is missing is a fine
piece of wire clattering
at the bottom of a thin piece
of blown glass.