Monday, July 8, 2019

Dreamtime, By Screen Light



I've been writing poems in response to news articles over the past three weeks. I try to put what comes up down as quickly as possible. This one came from an article about Trump’s tank parade, mingled with more news surfacing of the torture happening in the US prison camps along the Mexican-US border. 


US Tank Parade
 
Cibola Correctional Facility has long been a stain on New Mexico – the torture of cell-crowding, lack of water, decent food, and sexual assault has been common for years
(Former Detainees tell NM Legislators about Abuses - June 2018)
  
Cibola was also the name given to an illusory city of gold the Spanish conquistadores hunted in this area for years.


Cibola Correctional Facility

The incredible distance between the daily illusions created by our gaming-app-infotainment industries 
and the realities of our prison system, rampant oligarchic corruption, and systematic torture helps create a dream-like atmosphere. What is real? What is not?





Dreamtime.




When I think of the Trump Administration and those who support it (both corporations and individuals), I am reminded of Jean Amery’s thesis about Nazi Germany – that torture was not it’s byproduct, but the goal.





Also see Adam Serwer's Cruelty is the Point.

Also:






********

Dreamtime, by Screen Light


Cibola Correctional Facility, the panopticon headlight that
crosses the bedroom curtain all night,


lit blue;

Shadow-figures at the corner of the eye, beckoning, 
threatening, drawing me in,

lit blue;

Dust-rise from a lone truck on a dirt road, seen from the prison-
camp gate,

lit blue;

Waiting for the bus, mirage of water on the horizon, waving
a transparent victory flag at the future, the future of
no-water,

lit blue;

No water in the packed cell, no blankets in the packed cell,

lit blue;

Cibola, mirage city, city of gold, relief from loneliness, lost
casino of love, of penis enhancement, of GirlsGirlsGirls,
of endless tanks rolling past the viewing deck,

lit blue;

Secrets lie in dust, out in the open, sun-withered, dry-eyed,

lit blue…

 


 
Soviet Tank Parade