Venus Furioso

Venus Furioso


An Ode to Karl Rove

The people asked for Paradise.
God gave them America because
God believes everyone should get
only half of what they ask for.
It's the Eleventh Commandment
you aren't supposed to know about
called; Purgatory.
-- Paolo Honorificas

a.

Atomic petals over Japan
plum tree blossoms,
bushels of radioactive maggots
cleansing the sores of lepers

from its grave of blooms
a child rises.
The tree flowers again
this time gold
into another sun

out of whose sky the rain drops
blood, reflecting
multi-colored little Buddhas
the wind quivers before

as America triumphant rises reborn
to throw its weight around once more
stumbling into another dirty little war.

b.
Wrapped in the flag
of her embrace
our heads are spinning
cuz it doesn´t matter what we think.
We're not told the facts.
She doesn´t make sense.
It doesn't add up.
Its her time:

America as Venus Furioso
rises from a red tide
like an armored personnel carrier
up from the sea;
angry, irritable, water logged
and bitchy.

c.
In America car washes are haunted.
The emergency room is always open.
You have the freedom
to choose anything
but not enough money to pay for it.
In America copper pennies
are not copper.
You personal information belongs
to somebody else. A college education
provides you with the means to owe
more than you make. In America
the only unredeemable sin is poverty.
In America there are two rivers,
one of conflict
the other of hope, one releases
you to your better half
the other carries you down
rivulets of regret
to the delta of no man's land.
A land of strip malls,
species extinction
and asphalt parking lots
where ghosts throw dice
made from their war medals
or fly spinning kites
in the shape of the soldiers they were
where pale miscarriages called regrets
stalk this land of wombs
painted in the blood
of wasted youth
to symbolize the lost idealism
of our innocence
or the raw enrapturement of hope
mind refuses to give up, fearing
that these last little crumbs
of anchoring roots
will themselves through time be sold
to a corporate giant on the make
for souls.

d.
In an age of information
we can´t pretend to know
all the good and bad of it.
Late at night, wired to my computer
all electric in my chair,
I bridge that gap Aristotle warned about
as I sail through a sea of hyper text
no longer bound
by cause followed by effect
but sailing everywhere at once
until mind succumbs to a storm
of cumulative intrigues
in the form of altered truth
soaked till palatable
in a marination of lies
diced with rumerous wings
of batty propaganda blurbs;
those heartfelt protestations of belief
leaked by tongues of political snakes
fed to us by million dollar
newscasters on a mission to misinform
till we're buried in the rubric
of their patriotic
adrenalin rush. From Iraq to New York
a manifesto of resentment builds
like an anthem rising from the streets
that the truth unquestioned is heresy
and unreasoning acceptance
a form of arrogance.

e.
Raise high the roof beams Jesus!
See more, put the cell phone down.
Scatter the rose buds over the coffins.
Those in the political closet are out.
They're flashing their benevolent
neocon smiles
in order to cover their tracks
burying their mistakes in oil.
It's the spin that counts.
If you stretch the right truth
you can do whatever you want.
It's about corporate smirks
where tree cutting excesses
are called forest protection acts.
The lies become so big
they become the truth
like the government
is our best friend,
no child is left behind
or the business of America
is business itself
and an act of terrorism
can be defined
as crossing the street
against a red light.

f.
Politicians on the left and right
imprassarios of antique seasons
and global warming:
where I live Nature's mouth bleeds
a haunted garden. Out of her breath
come our struggles for peace
between a man and a woman,
between right and wrong,
between the earth as we know it
and the poisonous aftermath
your actions affirm.
You would deny us
what little space we have.
The old gods you worship are dead.
Gone are the myths
that kept your secrets.
Only the niave can believe
in the promises you make.


Scott Malby

Posted over on The Pedestal Magazine