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Fists on Fire: Poetry from the Heart of the Revolution

THE WARCANE

by Jack Hirschman

1.

I watched the television
mov(i)ed, that is
unmoved at bottom,
indifferently

as one star struck
another star, and another
star struck its twin
and put out their lights,

the Lamp of Darkness
a veiled splendor spreading
rapidly the world over.
And so I suck,

as we all suck,
from the ‘Other Side’
the Left included in the Right
and both, desperate and broken,

roaring the raw cry of Deror,
Freedom. But the lip of lies
stands erect and the lip of truth
lies prostrate and impotent,

husks clinging to millstones,
to the fat that covers billionaire bones
in the dry land that is Arabah,
which is Sharon.


How long will thoughtlessness
be best beloved,
O raining bombs,
O reigning bread?

How long will the word wanting
voice breaking into 70 voices
all people SEE and see turn
and kiss Truth on the mouth

be driven into shameless shame,
slithering with snakes into holes
to hone its fangs in this desert
of addio,

while cows go up in flames
mooing lamenting qasidas
and the horses stamp and neigh
marshiyas in Pashto,

and the suicided everywhere
are deciding on
the sacrifix against which
there is no defending.

Go to Part 2


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