“You have a mania for bizarre endings.” Of course, so was the world at the beginning, for nothing is always innocent, the same. Quaffing his beer, he would drone on: once accustomed to the slime of things, the eyes accept as fine & real everything. Who therefore still weeps over brats who sell their bodies to white pedophiles, peddled by parents strapped for cash? Young men/women who shack up with corporate gangsters & generals? Headless victims floating in Pasig, their torsos scarified with the torturer’s cross sidling by the tortured Christ? Poets, the so-called shy, sad poets who wear their secret hearts on their sleeves, & eat their poems of fire at the dance of armalites? Or lovers who fall madly in love—hearing no one, seeing no one, touching no one, but their own corpulent masks—then bash each other’s skull? Presidents who, under oath, lie through their teeth? & priests who, intoning deliverance for mankind, squeal on guerillas & peasants? Verily, the world constructs what a few seek to deconstruct for verities of justice, love & hope in the reign of Monopoly Capital where beginnings & endings are, like Walt Disney’s, bizarre. Quaffing his beer, he would drone on….
From Quadratic Silences, 1991