A lie is a lie is a lie.

Long chains hold us 
to our pasts. We claim
to have cracked their locks
and are now free of them, but 
a lie is a lie is a lie; 

we give our faith to 
such talk, choose not to hear 
those who still bear the weight
we claim to have thrown off;
it’s clear that we are not fooled
but are in thrall to our lies,
and a lie is a lie is a lie;

our lies form a base on which we build
those truths which may in fact be true
in the small scope of our own small lives
but which are bitter jokes in the lives
of those whose backs hold us up; a lie

is a lie is a lie. We lie with our lies
when we sleep safe and sound
in our safe beds; to lie
in those beds is to lie in and on
a bed of lies and what is safe,
what is sound, what is
a sound sleep

when each breath we take in sleep
is matched by those whose breaths 
are long since — and even now —
cut off, choked off, stopped
by blood in the throat? How is it
that we do not dream of blood
come to drown us
when we lie down
when our lie is a truth for some
and not all?
If it is a lie for some
it is still a lie,
is all a lie, 

and it’s no lie to say it kills.

Not so much
a hierarchy of classes
as one of castes here:

Greenback Caste, 
Faint Hope To Prosper Caste,
Edgewalker Caste,
Underwater But Bobbing Up Now And Then Caste,
Bottomed Out Caste;

solid, none too porous,
none devoid of nuance,
each with special provisions
for how you or your parents looked,
how you live and love,
how you are what you are;

not splintering, not 
softening, not becoming
more pleasant.

Easy enough now
to move
down the ladder. 

Harder than ever 
to climb it.

Nothing
this vertical can stand
intact forever — 

it cannot stand
but it will take more 
than talk 
and lightly scuffed skin
to tear it down.

It cannot stand,
and when it comes down
it will come down hard,
stone from the sky
falling in fire, wailing
a storm behind,
splashing everything
with ruin
right down
to the last greenback
and marble arch.

The Pyramids remind us

that even with massive slave-built bases
that made them strong,
that even while stripped and roughed
they remain impressive to this day,
after all is said and done
they are today
just empty tombs
for men who long ago
turned to dust.

Harambe:

a Swahili word meaning
pull together
let us pull together
let us pull together as a people

Harambe
I learned it when I was a kid
I read it in a National Geographic
way back before Rupert Murdoch bought it
I read it in an article about Kenya
replete with requisite stereotyped photographs
Harambe
a rallying cry during the struggle for Kenyan independence
Harambe
pull together
let us pull together
let us pull together as a people
Harambe

I’ve never forgotten that

When they first talked about that gorilla named Harambe
I remembered
When they talked about the cage that gorilla was in
I remembered
When they talked about shooting him to save the child
I remembered
When they started to be mournful about the gorilla’s death
more than they were thankful for the still-living child
I remembered
When they talked so sternly with great condescension
about that child’s parents
I remembered
When they roared and roared for someone’s blood
to be spilled for the dead gorilla
I remembered
Harambe
pull together
let us pull together
let us pull together as a people
Harambe

A roar for blood
on behalf of a caged gorilla
who shared his name
with an independence movement
Harambe

I remember

Do you remember
Tatiana
a Siberian tiger
who killed one man in the San Francisco Zoo
injured two other men in the San Francisco Zoo
after escaping from her cage
after being taunted by some or all of the men
after having pinecones shot at her from slingshots

They shot Tatiana

There was talk afterward that the taunting was only publicized
to shield the zoo from repercussions
even though the men admitted it
No charges were filed
and no one remembers if anyone
roared for blood on behalf of
Tatiana

No one knows the names
of the African painted dogs
who tore a boy to death in the Pittsburgh Zoo
when he fell into their enclosure
from an observation deck
where his mother had raised him
to the railing to see better
No charges were filed then
It was deemed a tragic accident
Lawsuits were filed and settled
Only one dog was shot that day
The other dogs were removed
were sent to other zoos
The zoo replaced the nameless dogs
with cheetahs
who do not appear
to have been named

It’s dawn and I’ve been at this for too long
I don’t know how to pull it all together
which is fitting I guess
for a poem about a society
that can’t seem to pull it together

Harambe

The villains
The heroes
The gunned down
The living
The sympathetic ones
The blameworthy ones
The ones who write the narrative
Who get to tell the story
Who own the means of transmission

Who pulled the trigger on this
Who fell
Who declared the black and white of this
Who roared
Who loved the taste of blood in this
Who thirsted 
Who danced around their desire
for all involved to die
from one bullet
from one choice

Harambe
pull together
let us pull together
let us pull together as a people
Harambe 

Harambe
Is gone now
Is over now
Is over
and out

If our house had more of a roof on it
then we wouldn’t get wet
and we’d also see less of the sky.

If there was more heat we’d shiver less
and we’d also miss out on the deliciousness
of warming up.

If we had a comfortable home
then we wouldn’t die of discomfort
and we would be less satisfied with crumbs.

Look up at the mansions on the hill.
Look up at the penthouses, look out
at the beach houses.

Look at the people who own them.
Look at them. Look
at Them.

Think of how much
it takes to make
them,Them.

Think of what it has taken
to make us, Us.
Think of what

was taken from Us to make Them.
Think of how little we would likely have to do
to make Them shiver. Think

of a fire we could light, a roof burning,
what sky we’d see behind the flames.
Think: we’ve always taken our happiness

where we find it.

The party’s over.

The roof’s 
been on fire
and now it’s coming down
despite all the efforts 
to save it.

The streamers
plummet onto us
stuck to burned bricks
and beams; the air
feels smoky and wet
all at once.

You’d better grab whatever you can
if you decide to run —
it may be better to die here, of course;
choose while you still can.

How slow
the implosion
of the great hall;
how long it has taken
to cave in; how many years
of small deaths
from early debris
that taught us nothing,

and now here we are
in our party clothes
trying to dodge catastrophe,
wondering if there’s time

for a last dance.

How many must still enjoy
World War II
that it rolls endlessly on
basic cable channels
newsreel upon newsreel
propaganda piled on
propaganda

getting what must be
satisfactory ratings

There’s never been a time
in my entirely postwar life
when I could not find a program
somewhere on the schedule
that once again
laid it all out
from Poland to Nagasaki

I think it must be
the machinery
the tanks and planes and ships of course
but more 
the effortless conversion
of men into cogs

and the smoke
and the sorrow of the enemy
and the burning of the bodies
and the smiles upon victory

a barely concealed
glee and fascination
with all the permissions 
that were granted
for horrible actions

and at last the resolution
that has allowed for
a lifetime of sequels

I wake up in despair most mornings. Each day
slants uphill and it takes everything to climb it 
with the load I’ve got to bear.

I wake up in despair most mornings
but find comfort in knowing 
things that a Pharaoh can’t know — 

how, for instance, to pick myself up
without an entourage to help me; how in fact
to get by with no entourage, neither in celebration

nor in sorrow; how to fall down back-broken
and get back up again next day for another round
with nothing but what’s in me to pull me up.

I wake in despair most mornings. Each day
bores me — sometimes with a dull drill, sometimes
with a bludgeon of same and same and same again.

I wake in despair most mornings 
but find comfort in knowing
things that a boss can’t know, or has forgotten —

how to do the dirtiest bits of a dozen jobs, for example;
how to take the next step when it’s time, how to 
fix the broken piece, how not to fail

from seven AM to lunch, how to stay awake
from lunch to three PM and longer
if three PM becomes 5 PM or later.

I wake in despair most mornings knowing
how little of my life is open to me, based on
how much time I have to spend recovering from the rest of it.

I wake in despair most mornings
but I can almost get to glee in knowing
what a king does not, what they may never know —

how to run riot in the streets to spite all my aches and pains,
how to run riot in the streets with all the others aching and pained,
how to run riot in the streets knowing how little time I likely have — 

but knowing as well that ahead of me, somewhere
cowering, somewhere hiding behind mere walls, 
a king, a boss, and a Pharaoh are, at last, themselves in despair.