Notes may be found after the poem.
RAMADAN 2004
for
Manadel al Jamadi
I have heard
them coming, with booted foot
stalking in
my chamber,
with long
small arms
and
gore-bespattered uniforms
my grave
dysarthria become to them
a thing of
wonderment
for hours it
seemed I might escape
with only a
deformity—
however
shocking—mangled hands and feet,
retaining
power to destroy mansions.
The women
visit me again
again unzip
opaque disaster pouch,
they crouch
and grin,
all thumbs
and blinding teeth
for pix which
you can download here,
and then
depart.
O, how I am
constrained.
All is
changed, changed utterly
thorough my
gentleness
to a strange
fashion of forsaking.
but look at
me: head frozen skyward
my breast
weighed down with ice
Thomas Crofts
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dysarthria - difficulty pronouncing words as the result of damge to the central nervous system
Manadel al-Jamadi - Information from Wikipedia
Manadel al-Jamadi (Arabic: مناضل
الجمادي) was an Iraqi prisoner who was tortured to
death in United States custody during interrogation at Abu Ghraib
prison in November 2003. His name became known in 2004 when the Abu
Ghraib scandal made news—his corpse packed in ice was the
background for widely-reprinted photographs of grinning U.S. Army
Specialists Sabrina Harman and Charles Graner each offering a
"thumbs-up" gesture. Al-Jamadi had been a suspect in a bomb
attack that killed 12 people in a Baghdad Red Cross facility.
More at
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manadel_al-Jamadi
MOLOCH
Are people going to get hurt? Yes.
Are people going to get killed?
Yes, they are.
Innocent people blown to
smithereens? You bet.
Thousands of them? Sure.
Valiant,
that
fascinating but cryptic
over-exemplification
of
candor, conjured from verbiage opaque
which
like satanic Latin
doth
decline from fair
but let us try to clear the air
He retains an air
of modesty…
What I want you to know, and then
I’ve got to go,
what you must know is that I
just don’t know
the soldiers know—boy do they know—
and what I’m hearing from them is
it’s hard work
it’s hard work and it is
difficult work
it’s not easy work
Hey you just asked that,
and I answered it to the best of my
ability. And I’m not going to
answer it again.
although it is a
very vague modesty
What’s MY job? Well my job is to
know; to predict; and to direct.
Can I really do those things? Can
anybody? Can you?
Let me just put it this way: it’s
my job: it’s what I do.
My path
is wide and long to tread,
and
hath a greater compass
than
men can know:
For mine is the drowning of bodies
in the sea;
Mine the prison cell remote;
Mine is the strangling, and
lynching by the throat;
Mine is the insurgent whisper
deadly;
The plotting and the poisoning of
men;
I do revenge, and punish openly,
And I dwell in the sign of the
lion.
I am SATURN
Mine be the contagions,
And all the wicked plots of old.
My very look engenders pestilence.
So weep no more: I’ll give it all
my diligence.
Why does it say Saturn there?
Because I ripped that off from
Chaucer. that’s why.
It’s a war I’m telling you.
II.
You see, there are choices,
and every choice you make affects
all the other choices you make,
including the ones you might have
made
on that day
or the ones which on another day
you didn’t make.
Can’t you understand that
there are known unknowns and unknown unknowns?
Can’t you grasp that simple,
elegant, vital truth
and put it in your mind, and think
it, and see it, and feel it and know it,
and know that it’s true?
This is a war.
Is there going to be blood? You
know there’s going to be blood.
Sheets of blood? Yes.
A fucking flood of blood? Probably.
Children dissolved in acid? Guts
hanging out of the burst-open
bodies
and other bodies like burnt bacon
hanging from bridges? Probably.
Is it worth it? You bet it is.
Do I have dead baby parts in my
hair
and in my eyes and underwear?
Do I drink wine from children’s
skulls?
Are my testicles full of blood?
Does blood stream from my nipples?
You bet it does and I’ll tell you
why:
I AM MOLOCH
Thomas Crofts
Moloch - Old Testament deity to whom
parents sacrificed their children.
DEATH OF THE
20-YEAR-OLD RESERVIST
Say I died not on the field of battle—
I never fought—
but under the wheel’s foot.
It was fairly routine.
I mean, I understood the drill.
C’est la guerre.
On the other hand, the entire thing
was an exercise
with a very low probability of success.
I had no curse at the ready
no blasphemous jarhead’s bitch
with which to consecrate or bless
the almighty IED
but just before the flesh was burned
away,
and blood pumped into the ground,
waxing (you will say)
whimsical,
I named my rifle Durendal.
Medicine (just then and there)
was a pretty backwards affair:
I stuck my hand in paradise
and woke up with the birds.
ERESHKIGAL IN
FURS
‘My lady, about your sending me up to the
heaven of Anu your father:
My lady, there was only one god who sat
bareheaded, blinking, and cringing at the assembly of the
gods.’
‘Go, seize that god and bring him to me!
Ea, his father, sprinkled him with spring
water,
And he is sitting in the assembly of all
the gods bareheaded, blinking, and cringing.’
--The Marriage of Nergal and
Ereshkigal
A quavering voice belies the killing soul
that stalks within my lady’s iron breast
I hear the sclabbering claws, and hear
the growl
when, gargoyle-like, she is at rest.
The placid drone that marks her piano
style
masks a lust for instruments of pain
which conjure screams from mouths of
victims vile.
That is sweetest music to her brain
She with her world-travel and her lust
and her lies!
The man she plays and drones and quivers
for,
though she thinks him a god, is an imp.
Her two eyes
are witching suns
her fingernails are churning blades
her teeth are battle-axes charged with
gore.
Her hair a metal helm,
her breasts are burning villages.
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HEREAFTERMATH
Gargantuan gall,
Elephantine lobe devoid of wit
Opulent pig brain
Regulating appetites
Ghastly;
Excusing none from the table of death.
What else do you remember?
Before the feast, I remember
Unctuous words,
Salivating thanks were given.
Hellish, blinding fire rose up.
Just moments later always I hear
Returning ghostly voices, cracked from
ear to ear.
Nov. 23, 2003
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