Weedon Island #5, Neruda

You will ask why his poetrydoesn’t speak to us of dreams, of the leaves,of the great volcanoes of his native land?Come and see the blood in the streets,come and seethe blood in the streets,come and see the bloodin the streets! ~~~Pablo Neruda, “I Explain Some Things”

We have
Apple Fritters
apple slices, Jarlsberg cheese
Water, coffee.

So we taste the sweetness,
talk and laugh to keep from crying
Before we write.

The season is turning
dry now
but the ditches will be filled
by a flood of tears,
blood of those murdered in the streets.

Our President says our votes won’t count,
our voices will be silenced,
So he can win. He must win.
His dead father still punishes any loss.

He laughs
at the anguish
of a reporter shot with a rubber bullet in the knee.
Calls his pain a thing of beauty.
His followers laugh with him
Feel joy rise in their ranks
The certainty of violence,
o seductive, easy.
The simple answer
they long for.
He rallies them
To feel
the power of bullies.

“Dad, he made fun of me…”
Why the fuck you cryin’…
I’ll give you something to cry about.
Here, take this gun,
He’ll crap his pants..hahaha…
He’s a loser
Don’t be a loser
Show him who’s boss
Kick the shit out of him
Don’t be a pussy.
Suck it up.
Make your old man proud.

“Her? Fuck her, that bitch,”
she asked for it.

Long ago I heard Pablo Neruda
call out to his nation,

“When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions. They offered to burn me; it was the only thing they knew.”—-Pablo Neruda

These words once seemed so distant from my home.

These words once seemed so distant from my home.

Photo by Malcolm Garret on Pexels.com

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