Sing forth the treasons,
the seasons have been sung
long before revolting – D minored
the winter, G majored the spring…
Beh, the seasons never heard
these grovelling breaths,
but sucked them deaf up.
Give lung to the unbreathed
rumors squat below the bridge,
these tumors unskinned,
revealed pulsing on our red,
white – blue tunneled drums –
these cancers defiling the myth of us.
The fall does not applaud
the clapping of leaves, but
strips us to bone, and the
blown away come to us cardboard,
cornered in the cold sun, unsung –
mocked the radio comfort of disdain.
Our own unmaking, unmasked
and riven with lies – lies and all lies
reinforced with steel and striped beams,
stiff on a pole, snapping as whips
on a cotton bent back – crowed
as every patriot hymn
fades in a grumble.
Such joyful music this treason,
this treason not treason,
this discomfiting strained ensemble
sparing neither breath nor ear
the true screech of anthems –
beat, immobile chords,
chained and ghetto thirds,
cast-off tritones, contrapuntal,
scraped on gut and strung up,
and over the laminate woods of us.