Jim Lang

SEASON'S CHANGE

The last icicles
shed their tears furiously
bringing in the spring.

Eric Shaffer

 

GENOCIDE SUTRA - A LOVE POEM

                    1.
          With ruby hearts at stress,
we march hand wrapped in hand
through the infamous gates
across the broken tracks
and into the empty yard;
where evil screamed,
and the devil harvested
the vineyard of the damned.

          Auschwitz
there is no pleasure in yesterday.

          Auschwitz
this little terror at the ass-end of the world. Truly.
The memorial here is an antiseptic lie.
An anemic and sterile victims' dude ranch.
Diluted. A soft and incomplete fable.

          Auschwitz
we stroll through this detached amusement park,
Poland's tidy and grand tourist attraction.

          Auschwitz
when you sleep with Dr. Mengele
you always sleep alone.

          Auschwitz
the fences are straight and inviting,
the buildings freshly painted and comfortable,
the infirmary scrubbed,
the chimney a non-issue,
neat white gravel spread on the walkways,
pretty early spring flowers bloom where brains were splattered.

          Auschwitz
The Little Red House of gas and horrors is long gone.
The Black Wall of Block 11 is a reproduction.

          Auschwitz
There is no mud.
There is no taste.
There is no noise.
There are no rats.
There is no stench from Judith's decaying corpse.
Where are Lena's screams?
Where is Jacob's mutilated face?
Where is the iron bar placed on Oswald's throat –
while an SS officer stood feet planted firmly on the ends?
Where are Max's testicles?

          Auschwitz
The slaughter displayed here
is strictly museum quality,
archival in its elegance.
Small collections of hair, teeth and artificial limbs
rest in small piles in glass cases.
Anonymous. No names associated with the specimens.
Where is the whimsical Bavarian felt hat
made from Olga's and Ruth's hair?
Where is the fine carving knife
made from Milo's femur?

          Auschwitz
Immediately after the liberation of this graveyard,
prospectors from the village of Oswiecim
rushed in to mine the surrounding
creeks and ash fields like it was the Yukon,
ravenously staking claim for human
wasted gold, silver, clothes and bones.
The Great Polish Klondike Strike of 1945.

          Auschwitz
The gorgeous birch woods
surrounding Birkenau
are the cemetery here,
nourished by the discarded
blood, bones and ashes,
a fertilizer for the ages.
Terminal jive,
a grand celebration of death
for all seasons.

                    2.
          Auschwitz
It wasn't the beginning,
and it certainly wasn't the end
          between
the Crusades and Pol Pot's purification in the Killing Fields;
          between
the Inquisition and Edward Teller's Hiroshima;
          between
Caligula and Jean-Baptiste Gatete;
          between
Catherine the Great and Lt. William Calley;
          between
Ah Pook the Destroyer and Darfur
          perhaps sometime before,
          perhaps sometime after,
naked grace,
a wild and immaculate showgirl,
the mother of pearl of controlling shelter,
          discouraged and exhausted,
decided to simply fade away -
blowing a parting kiss to the camel
dreaming in the middle of the courtyard,
and discreetly exited the room.

                    3.
          Nanking
the streets painted permanently red,
cruelty in the name
of god's imperial glory.
Satori in the key
of annihilation.

          Bosnia
stretched out on a bed of nails,
returned home after the funeral,
jammed open the windows
and reveled in the stench
that filled its nostrils.

          Jerusalem
no matter how heavily
they are whitewashed,
the buildings will always be
the color of dead skin.

                    4.
          Bodies burn
blood dries
bones pulverize
but ashes remain forever.
          They cannot be obliterated,
          they are the final reduction.
They fertilize the grass
that nourishes the animals
that provide the milk
that our children drink.
          They bear forward
          the grain
          the plants
          the fruit
          we eat.
They filter
the water we gulp,
the air we inhale.
          They give
          shadow to the sun
          and light to the moon.

This rhapsody of ashes:
They are in Delilah's hair
and Samson's breath,
Nero's eyes
and Rasputin's skin.
They are John the Baptist's easy repetition
and General Sherman's rugged determination,
Madame Mao's rapid conclusions
and Houdini's other cheek.
          They are
          this cigarette
          burning on the floor.
They lace the
orange blossoms
covering our bed.
          They are the gloss
          shining your lips,
          the grime
          under my nails.

                    5.
          This easy emancipation of death.
In our ruby tinged hotel room
outside the remains of the ghetto,
we fuck the horror away.
My tongue in the orifice of your choice.
Your tongue in the orifice of my choice.
one cock
one cunt
one mouth
love dissolved into a puddle
of simple sugar
swallowed together
in one taste.

          Violently intoxicating,
a bouquet of tiger lilies,
your cunt is to me;
an aroma
I will never tire
of inhaling.
And you shall sleep
tonight
with your head
on my chest.
And I shall sleep
tonight
with my head
in your hands –
the whole world in them.

d. smith