Perfect World

Originally posted 11/25/2003.

The news speaks of Siegfried and Roy,
of terrible news that a beloved tiger
has turned upon them; also, I see
we are still
at war.

I am not Roy.
I am not Siegfried.
I cannot make any of this
disappear.
Therefore, I will give up. 

I will turn toward the headlines
that call out war and other savagery
and surrender my own head to that tiger.
Into his jaws, the ivory ridged tabernacle,
I shall commend my spirit.

I shall learn to speak in sitcom
and imagine in high definition 
what it’s like to be at war –
if my left eye opens,

I will wash it
in a pool of agreement
and dry it
with a flag.

Somebody teach me
the chords to a country song.
Somebody
pardon me for being slow
to resign myself
to the new reality:
this was supposed to be 
our century, 
our time to shine
with the glazed and handsome
Coca Cola sheen
of the skin on a roasted hog.

Everybody dies
for something these days.
Somebody, anybody,
give me something simple to hold
and I’ll pretend that I like dying for it,

even as I wonder why Roy wasn’t faster,
swinging the mike at the tiger’s head
and leaping back in time to laugh and laugh
at how those handsome teeth closed on air.

Why were our free will 
and his gleaming magic 
not enough to stop the blood?

Why isn’t history dead? 

Why are we still at war?