Another Bell Has Sounded:
They are Awake, They are Alive and Well, So Howl

I.

It was as if every part of him was meant for you
to slowly devour,

as the witness of tomorrow walked into the crowded streets and caravans

left with village bands playing only 35 minutes outside the wedding gazebo
atop its majesty,
Galilee.

Is it she?


II

But the truly free can only shelter their eyes
and avert their fragmented stares,

while the congregations light themselves a-fire
and consume their glory with righteous airs.

And i still stink of their petty hatreds moving through every pore
towards our hearts through vein,

as they shed themselves with waves of explosions
like rocket ships moving asunder Pan Am planes.

Their passengers are soon calling
for their loved ones hearts and minds,

oh but the lime's riddled with children dying like they're
tip toe 'in firecrackers torching
what's left of time,

of what will soon be cremated prayers rising
above an old, coca cola bottling company,

while dastardly men chant to their spouses to,

"Never despair, my darlings."

The black crow, Vengeance, appears out of nowhere but somewhere
-he's now hidden in mid air-

Like he is their savior,
so sleek and debonair,
hulking over the lampost eyeing if only to declare,
posturing like some
modern day Stalin:

"It is best for them,

as we

must

refrain

from

such

needless

coddling."


III

The sideways, side streets are left with grenades
and a broken lemonade stand.

The faces are left to live in the clutches of their vigilant histories, as they celebrate the self-destructive natures of man.

Their guns start firin' off,
Their silos start blowin' off,
as missiles lift off from
the confines of nice, sheltered homes,
lost in the shadows of another high noon.

Soon emerging only to,
surging through surburbia too,
ensuring they hurry and move
their careless lawn jockeys rusting in the background,
playing their most favorite baffoon.

In the reality of today, the fictions of yesterday become futures
present in a fury of gun shells
bombarded with calls for another Nagasaki, as

memories of faces become frozen Pompeian traces
of our ancestors blowing their sloppy kisses
of reminder that read:

"This is upon thee!"

Didn't they listen?
Didn't they read the books we wrote?

In the dazzle of their TV's,
they lie dormant in safety,
their mouths formed as long and vacant O's,
left only to corrode
in a veil of nuclear peace,

through out every town
every city,
nook and cranny,
every coliseum and thunderdome.

It was on wallpaper,
it was staining their carpets,

living through the miracles of resurrection
hanging around their chests, ever known,

that all long

it was in the center of their eternal union,
inside the might of their

homogenous homes.