unspeakable

unspeakable
by
bg flanagan
copyright 2009 USA, Azerbaijan
I.
by
now
the snappy
agrarians had left them,
sprawling puce acid rain cities
the echoing skeleton-ribs of economy on life support:
the empty promises of madison ave brands fizzling like
a dud birthday candle spitting in the torrid mists
:
o,
by
then
the isms and their ists
disappeared down a drainpipe
sucked in with a Katrina hurricane like
thaaaawooooop:
post
modernist faded
new deal went down
20th century flopped too
faded
failed
flopped
thwooooop:
all of’ ’em
there was no name for it except one
no one dared speak it because it had failed again
capitalism
an’
no one dared mention the failure it was unspeakable
failure failure failure and war was the only-est answer, sir
.
.
.
II.
an’
like the indians left their maples and pines thatched back a century-so before
startled
fighting to the last axe and adze  for land and
begging their cousins to make
no marks on paper, no
never never ever
do it:
now
there are no more straw-hatted chainsmokers waiting in the station
the gutted downtown buildings
now
like greying pumpkins
sit silent
windows flapping open to howl occasionally
as if with alzheimer’s
with the 18wheelers 12 floors below zooming in the winds
a cat licks his paws preening on the sill
o,
once
the American
savannahs and
cedar forests
and birch groves
throbbed a thick rich sap blood
with quivering hunters
and sumptuous sonsie squaws
now
alas
soon cities were  born
propped up
held together
less than an inch away from stillborn:
spit-an’-bailing-wire
contraptions:
the CITY
the tangled
wire and closet heaps
of
promises
bank bonds
and
stubby fingered ladies’ savings accounts
protected in nice little gold embossed booklets
smelling and looking like baby passports
.
.
.
III.
an’
now
of recent
all was sent in lil evil lawyers’ boxes
to the giraffe throated city incenerator
burned unceremoniously there along
with the carcasses of unwanted pets
my god the smell
now
dry
all ash
all
dry as
a
stick
of deo
in the sun
my my what 200 years hath wrought
.
.
.
IV.
so today the bright eyed daughters
and the shaved weightlifting sons
wonder what the morass
called urban downtown
really is and was about:
all they know is from
fading kodak b&w
prints once rolled
over by a wick
of alcohol:
conjured
images;
funny, it
must’ve
been
now.
V.
oh
how
easy
maybe
an espresso
before I catch
my surly bondless
flight somewhere?
all
the same.
but
if you
do get old
lucky you learn
it is tragedy everywhere
and you cannot travel anywhere
without taking it along:
whoever said you can’t
take it with
you
?
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