Homeland Follies
Poem by Uri Herz & Collage by Linda Haim
Bin Laden performs a cabaret act undercover
with the Mujahadeen chorus line,
Reagan’s CIA-trained freedom fighters,
direct from Afghanistan, back for an encore,
singing "New York, New York" for Islamists worldwide:
If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere.
Bush’s mission:
to take on his father’s imperial mantle,
to use the cry of other battles,
to sweep away what’s left of democracy,
to destroy a hidden enemy,
to front for America Inc. on a global scale
based on buying and selling oil
to fuel the war machine.
Citizens, stay alert!
If you notice someone doing anything suspicious,
report him to authorities before he can carry out his plan.
Reagan, drooling in Bel Air,
knew nothing of this nightmare
in the image of a role he had once portrayed
when he played on the international political stage,
but had long since forgotten in the fog of dementia.
The son for the father, parodies of history,
the first time as tragedy, the second as farce.
Thanatopsis Hayride
Poem by Uri Hertz & Collage by Linda Haim
The American matrix is programmed with codes
torn from our history's circular nightmare.
Under cover of patriotism and religious authority,
it directs blindfolded masses to believe
in a medicine show where souls are lost
behind promises of eternal life.
The American deathwish takes on a life of its own
in legends of the dimestore cowboy's revenge.
God, father, president, general, priest,
protect me daddy, punish me with rapture.
The snake oil salesman's smirk
reveals that Bush knows he has gulled
the faithful flock once again.
Looks like four more years of that old jihad
heehaw.
Hang on tight and get ready for a rocky ride.
(11/3/04)
Tie Rumsfeld Down
Poem by Uri Hertz & Collage by Linda Haim
Strap Rumsfeld to a board and immerse him in water until he thinks he is going to drown.
Then ask him to define the word torture. -- Daniel Ellsberg
Tie Rumsfeld down.
Behind cold steel bars at an undisclosed location,
sic German shepherds on a naked and cowering Cheney
until, broken, he gives up the names of his accomplices.
Force the neocons in the Bush administration
to have group sex with Chalabi
and a quorum of Iranian mullahs.
Coerce them into revealing the secrets
behind their intersecting conspiracies.
Blackmail John Ashcroft with lewd photos
and videotapes of his erotophobic fantasies
obtained from the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover.
Extort from him a solemn promise
that he will handcuff himself to the bars of a cell
for an indeterminate period
to investigate his own corrupt ideology
of unchecked police power by order of the State
and unlimited control over bodies and minds
of his fellow Americans.
Dress Condoleezza Rice in a dominatrix bustier.
Make her tear off the president’s mask
and put a hood over his head to cover that idiot grin.
Ship the commander-in-chief back to his ranch in Crawford
shackled to the grill of his pickup.
In the absence of actionable intelligence,
drive him head-on into a huge pile of horse manure
to extract a confession of war crimes and grand larceny.
On the road to Damascus, on the road to democracy,
Iraq is a hard place to get your kicks.
Bring the troops home before they wind up coming after us.