NOTE: I almost never write haiku. Just not my wheelhouse, and I respect the traditions of the form too much to mess around with it…most of the time.
I have friends who are absolute haiku masters who would certainly question my adherence to the old 5-7-5 rule we all learned in school. That’s fine; just taking the form out for a stroll, leaving the training wheels on.
to cracks in a lakeshore rock
Waves falling just short
A wind with no home
seeking rest under my eaves —
Roof rises laughing
This wind broken branch —
how shall I move it aside?
I let it lie, step around.
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The bodies in front of their former homes. The homes themselves burnt to hell. The bodies face down, some with their hands tied. The homes no longer tied together by mortar and nails.
You could say this has been an action devoted to freeing the bricks from the tyranny of structure. When you look at it from the point for view of the property, the land the structures sat on, this is an exciting new opportunity. Anything may happen now.
As for the bodies? Find a little property for them. Dig a pit and lime it, put the bodies in, cover them up, tramp the dirt down. It’s a simple process. It will be repeated, from bullet to bulldozer, as long as there’s property to be set free.
I don’t know how to say it but to say it plain: freedom largely is defined in a point plotted between the axes of property and bodies. I don’t know how to say it but to say it with a dirty voice of truth: your freedom is largely defined by your comfort with that math.
I don’t know a place on earth where there have never been bodies lying dead in front of their former homes, where the property mattered less than the bodies, at least for a time, sometimes forever.
You may or may not have put the bodies there. Whether or not you did, your freedom actualizes upon finding your comfort level with the faces on those bodies — the color, the shape, the time between their deaths and your realization.
Did they die because they insulted the rights of the property around them? Did they die because their property wasn’t handled right? Did they die in order to keep you safe, protect your freedom?
Ah, but your home is lovely, filled with artifacts from your travels and your long and happy family life. You occupy such lovely property, my friends, my darlings. Freedom has been good to you.
Leave a comment | tags: poems, poetry, political poems, prose poems | posted in poetry