Freedom Fighter

Lady MacBeth had it wrong. They were sure.
With enough elbow grease and ethnic cleanser you can
eliminate just about any stain. It helps
if dissent is properly ordained, and
only secular priests allowed
to survey the crime scene. It helps.
Assassination policies, proxy wars, germ banks…
preached with the right disdain, as for a dumpster baby's
uninsured mother, the lifestyle illness
of some gay arriviste --- erased almost
effortlessly from the arsenal of official history.

They could tell you that history is a drumfire
where the poor and weak-minded, homeless,
warm their vagrant hands on the cinders
of their rights. An oil drum.
That life is a grave and death
a grave robber. Murder, a freedom
fighter, for and against. They could
tell you this, for a price.

But instead they will recite parrot arias
on inadvertant lethality. Censer-headed
exhale their words, a cloud forest
of gorilla mist and cavesmoke.
Lip sync the gospel of personal
responsibility like an ethnic weapon,
a living weapon aiming for controlled
incapacitation. They will issue their fatwas
in the name of piecemaking: heard wrongly if not
interpreted under a spell.

Why this sacrament of ruby throats
at the hummingbird feeder, wings
too fast to be seen
at a single place in time, the fact
severally located and ghostly
transparent? Why this big budget
blockbuster offering in the darkness of a movie
theater, strobing like the rotor of
a crashing medevac chopper
into the dream-ending ocean
of peer review?

History will not be told
by the needles of Australian lip sew-ers. They are run
over by search engines that take them for
sewers, enlightenment
refugees frightened by illumination
rounds fired over satellite phones
to the midnight Potala Palace
of cable news network chain-
store commercials.
Nor will it be told by those chased beneath
ghetto birds, windbeaten like pallborne leaves,
living donors basting in the land of the free.
History is a pasteurized op-ed piece
filed by the dean's list
of a warlord academy, a cold
fusion of sub-munition bomblets, lilac
scented machetes, magic carpet bombings
for Baghdad thieves, ghostwritten national interest
waivers, and ion beam
sterilizations, totally lacking adult
supervision.

Not to remember, but celebrate,
the luminaria are lit. Surviving no longer
than a smile, refusing
to submit.