5 November 2001
This poem is not about the news,
but my pad sits on today’s Tribune
and the heel of my hand blots the newsprint
and smudges friendly fire on the stanza,
killing innocent iambs.
This poem is not about the news,
but, from setting down my coffee cup,
a ring of money launderers
and covert coups d’etat
seeps through the page.
This poem is not about the news.
It won’t be dropped from twenty thousand feet
or processed through the proper channels,
or sattelite-fed live from the Tien Shan,
or expert-rated for its market share.
This poem is not about the news,
but it’s written on a dollar bill,
on the pulp of the last of the old growth.
–It is scribbled, in gasoline,
on a body bag, and shipped home.