All We Are Saying Is

image borrowed from bing

All We Are Saying Is

“What difference does it make to the dead,

orphans and the homeless, whether the

mad destruction is wrought under the name

of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty

or democracy?--Mahatma Ghandi

Veteran’s Day is almost upon us, 

giving us another opportunity to fully

reflect on the current state of chaos

in the human heart,

as War moves perilously about the planet

like a rogue cancer, never actually healed,

just deterred, redirected, or camouflaged.

Ever since I finally allowed my uncle

to reduce the work force by one,

I have taken full possession of those

beauteous gifts of recall and regret,

as I am reminded constantly that man

remains the most lethal of all species,

cutting the throats of their brothers,

building more efficient weapons,

churning the oceans into cesspools,

melting the ice caps like discarded popsicles

on hot pavement, forever worshipping

those bloody curs of Mars rather than

the loving wings of doves, and

all I can seem to do is burst into a torrent

of old man’s tears, soaking the scars on my cheeks.

Jesus, I weep

while watching movies, 

Hallmark commercials,

my grandchildren at play, 

my wife’s authentic orgasms,

and I really pry open the saline flood gates

when the techno-screens all about me

are besmirched with thousands

of flag-draped coffins as we continue

to sacrifice our beloved children

on the angry red alters of patriotism,

knowing full well that their innocence

was actually consumed by 

the piety of the petroleum gods,

the rancor of robber barons,

the manipulation of the media--

where distorted spinning propaganda

is served up steaming fresh

and continuously spewed out

like uncountable droplets of contagion.

I remember vividly what my buddies

learned to say in order to get through

each day while serving in the maelstrom

of Viet Nam--

“It don’t mean nothin’”

because, of course,

it meant

everything. 

I do recall the young man I once was,

tough as Mailer,

eccentric as Vonnegut,

wild as Kerouac,

verbose as Faulkner,

struggling with eddies of ego,

anvils of angst, mostly holding back

my emotions because god damn it

I was no candy-assed faggot

cry baby,

now grateful that the foolishness of youth

has vanished and I realize that I have earned

the right to allow the wisdom of my tears

to flow copiously over the wounds of this world;

even though the whole of mankind

are but particles of sand in the magnificent

muscles of the cosmic mollusk,

we must realize, must learn,

that we do have the capacity

to spread our arms wide open

in a universal gesture of peace,

and we need to ready ourselves

to conjure up and share the richness

of all the colors within us

to perfectly match the loving music

of the day we must create.

Glenn Buttkus

November 2012

Posted over on dVerse Poets--Poetics

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