(89)
The fine print whispers secrets
dawn to dusk, then
issues indictments in the dark.
The fliers the wind
deposits door to door
are printed in bold type
offering twenty percent off
a new car and half price redemption
under participating
gods. The supermarket shelves cry
Freedom! while the Senate
convenes to decide
who it’s for. Petty crimes
are punished while the larger ones
just collect interest
and it’s becoming hard to tell
the difference between
a prayer and a bribe.
(94)
The wind tugs at the edges
of the brightest clouds, while away
to the north dark ones
sweep the mountains with their skirts of rain.
It’s rush hour on the freeway
with traffic slowing down
as the dark minutes eclipse
bright ones, and the undecided weather
passes through. It’s fair to ask
which costume truth is wearing
today: a blue suit
or the T-shirt
printed with a message
to rise up and challenge
authority. The emperor,
as usual, has a coat
of pure light, and he’s crossing
the world on a rainbow.
/
(97)
Words are flying
once again today in the halls
of power: raptors sweeping through
clusters of nouns and a panic
of run-on sentences
pecking at the ground to pick
up fallen periods. Talk, talk, talk,
and no end of it. Meanwhile
the lies are circling
in a flock with too many
to count. There’s a field guide
for facts, but it’s lost.
Vowels chase the consonants and
the consonants collide
in mid-air: Ts with the Xs and Ms
with the Bs. What a clatter, what
a wild cacophony, what a gust
the wings make when they flap.
David Chorlton
Illustration: Claire Palmer