useless art

February 12, 2003

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I send my children
to their doom
almost every night.

I salute their efforts.
They leap
from my tortured grip

and slide into the water
lemming-like,
smooth purpose lost

to the sound of progress
cocking a gun
and holding its breath.

I can�t bear to watch.
Thoughts drift
to the watered-down Guernica

wearing my mirror, and the
burnt dust
salting tarnished fixtures.

Look at me, at half-mast,
infirm and hairy,
beached on chipped porcelain �

I age four score
with each salute,
and when the light

goes out, I hear a
bugle boy
empty his spit valve.

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