This is a poem that was part of the collection
The Next World,
published in January of this year (2025).
The Disappeared
1.
Bodies have been disappearing on this street for weeks.
Shadows grow longer at the edge of streetlight. I feel
them, out there, being handed off on airport tarmacs,
picked up on the road’s shoulder, instantly becoming
faceless, anonymous bodies with nervous systems.
Nerves that will become extensions of wires that lead
to the soft fingers and mouths of interrogators who do
not seek answers, never answers, only pain.
2.
I look down into the Willamette River: headlights pierce
each other behind me. There are wires beneath this
river, snaking out across the globe, attaching themselves
to bodies, stolen bodies. Follow the strands and you move
toward the world’s central secret. I hate secrets, but I
hoard them just the same. I’ve seen the bodies float down
the river in the dark. I’ve seen the interrogator’s claws
reach up, pull the bodies down. I say nothing.
3.
What is the primary drug for those who keep busy
designing ways to torture; the primary drug of those
who carry it out, tinkering with knobs, dials? Is it
the same drug taken by those who are in charge of
nuclear silos? Living on top of power so vast and secret
it must suck all life out of everything around it, create
a life of its own. There is an occult power in torture,
secrets, the ability to disappear bodies.
4.
What is the body? Vulnerable meat marbled by threads
of light, reaching out for and retreating from pain. I
move quickly, at the speed of thought, try to keep from
being completely solid, remain only mind. If I’m not a
solid body that can sense, can be attached to the intricate
web of wires that are endlessly searching for nerve-endings,
I will no longer be desirable to them. I grow long, with
shadows at the end of the street, evade detection.
The poem developed as a persona poem, written in the winter of 2022, in the voice of abject fear generated from memories of US renditions of citizens from other countries, including US citizens, to black sites to be tortured and murdered or “forgotten”, spending the rest of their lives shuttled from prison to prison, no one knowing if they are still alive or dead. Part of the terror was knowing that it was only a matter of time before this system of brutality and torture came home. And it has come home to the US.
Another influence were reflections on the system of imprisonment/disappearances that became ubiquitous among authoritarian and totalitarian regimes in the 20th century. The term “The Disappeared” (Los Desaparecidos) came out of the horrors perpetrated by the Pinochet regime in Chile (70’s through 90’s), which was supported by the US government. Stealing/kidnapping people off the street in the night, in broad daylight, was a way to instill fear of resisting the regime.
The Argentinian Junta (also during the 70’s, also supported by the US government), saw how well this horrific system of disappearances was working in Chile, and so picked up the gauntlet and began their own siege against anyone who spoke out against them, resulting in at least 30,000 citizens “disappeared” (i.e., murdered).
Earlier in the 20th century, The Soviet Union under Stalin used this tactic to silence dissent. The KGB would break down doors, haul those that Stalin didn’t like (the combination of vast paranoia/mental illness and vast power – much like Donald Trump and Stephen Miller) and, if they weren’t murdered, they were disappeared into one of the countless oubliette-like camps that were part of a mass prison system (gulags).
The poem above is in the voice of someone who has been overwhelmed with fear, in flight or freeze. This is the purpose of the terror, the chaos, the images of busting windows and hauling women, men, children out of cars.
But these ICE thugs (both agents and those in administrative and advisory posts) are hiding behind masks, hiding behind cliched and stereotyped language, hiding behind weapons and violence. They are hiding because they have nothing else. They are not as powerful as they make themselves out to be. Their power is a mask.
Here’s a poem about ICE recruitment,
from the latest manuscript,
called
Rubble/Anti-Rubble
Hero
Who are you going
to cuff and beat,
Johnny Kill Johnny Kill?
Who are you going
to drop into a black hole,
Johnny Kill?
Remember when no one
would let you near their pets,
Little Johnny Kill?
Remember when you
couldn’t find a date who
would relent
in the way you liked,
Oh Little Johnny Kill?
Now with your signing bonus
(Sing it: Little Johnny Kill)
and all the gear you can wear
(Sing it: Little Johnny Kill)
You’ve finally found
your calling
Johnny Kill Johnny Kill
After all this time
desperate to be seen
Johnny Kill Johnny Kill
Aching for unsung
talents to be used
Johnny Kill Johnny Kill
With your choke-hold move
and your taser
With the power of your boots
and your anger
With your pleasure
in the fear of others
With adrenaline pumping
when the body shudders
It’s you, Johnny Kill
It’s finally your time
It’s you, Johnny Kill
Man about town
It’s you, Johnny Kill
With the hero’s mask
It’s you, Johnny Kill
Little Johnny Kill at last
A few articles:
Where are the Detainees? Hundreds of "Alligator Alcatraz" Prisoners Disappear from ICE Database
"Hell on Earth": Immigrants Held in New California Detention Facility Beg for Help
"Disappearing" People Without Warning or Trial, ICE Does the Work of Empire
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