And the contrail's red glare

I would take you, 42. I would march you down the stairs.
Your fingers sweeping through the sweating palms of your children
Beneath the contrail's red glare.
You'd flash your wives and husbands a wink--you'd bat your simple lashes against the futile flow of tears. The drums for sympathy were drowned out beneath the pangs of liberty and the everlasting ring of gunshots.
They used their last rounds against the temples of those they couldn't afford anymore while you watched your forked tongues shoot hot ash beneath their trembling eyelids and bellowed when the membranes burned through.
They'd lock webbings to ensure that they wouldn't lose each other with their concrete as the braille.
I'd march you down the stairs this day beneath the contrail's red glare
and let you feel the gaze of those who cannot see you.
Count off.
Throw your gold leaflets before you. Peel them like the petals of hair you pluck before the mirror.
She loves me.
She loves me not.
They're In your sink, now. No pain. Light them, now.
No pain. Look forward.
1
2
3
4
all the way down the line.
1, 2, 3, 4
42.
I'd sit down in front of you with nothing but this. You know my name. But you haven't read this.
Your tears would be flowing now. Trickling into the gutter beneath your feet as you stand naked before your mother.
"Now you told a lie today. Tell me what it was."
Whose turn was it to answer?
"TELL ME WHAT IT WAS."
She angrily rips out a clump of her white hair and throws it to the ground.
"Whoever tells me won't get into any trouble."
Silence now before your congregation. Your stole is in front of you and the church is on fire! And yet they wait.
Your mother walks away, 42. She's crying now, as well.
I'd start to snicker now at this point. I'd read the good news gospels about the prisons at sea beneath the contrail's red glare. I'd read about where the tongues you ripped out were sent beneath the contrail's red glare.
42. Join hands with 1. That's it. That's it.
Now. If you please.
I'd gently clap my hands, and a violinist would walk in the middle of your circle.
Playing the saddest notes you've ever heard.
And one by one, we'd crawl into your circle.
You start it, 42.
Ring around this rosy reality.
Pocket full of phony posies.
Ashes. Ashes.
You all fall down.


Los Angeles 2010