Other Poems by:

Spiel

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mounting meat


i just donít care about the daily hundreds ofÖ 

how can i care about another hundred casualties 
piles and piles mounting up in pounds of
dead meat on their streets
i donít care if the meat is theirs or ours 
i donít care if it is men or women 
chickens or children or donkeys 

same as i donít care about the heaps of pounds of burgers dispensed 
by mcdonaldís in one year or twenty years or fifty   
i am certain it must be in the billions by now   but i will say this
at least that fast-meat giant puts out 
for real exchange in return for its primetime 
to show off its meat 

only itís we who have to cough out the billions 
for the tens upon tens of thousands of pounds of bloody 
somewhat skinned and oft-times conveniently partially boned
and much too often so blown-to-bits-it-canít-be-shown  
raw man-meat voraciously consumed by our t.v.s 
to teach us not to care
where our consumption dare not matter anymore   

and it does seem that it is working
because   i    do    not    care 

but    i    do   wonder   
might the fluid nature of blood plasma become more frightening 
in the last days when we all cave to wal-mart 
each of us squeezed into its aisles there and hacking 
out bucks for a high-wired much wider so much flatter new plasma t.v. 

or might that fluidity become even more delicious   more and more   
thus suspending the red of its reds 
even more extravagantly than ever before 
like gloss lipstick on the whore we have not yet dreamed  
because she can only be seen IF one is wide-awake 
as she torpedoes thru our own front door
 

 

on words & Up words

Spiel 

spielspeak@earthlink.net


way i see it

way i see it, 

you're not ready

to write poetry

til you're ready 

to tell the truth.

way to know if you

are telling the truth

is when you kick up

a cloud of dust,

ruffle the feathers 

of sleepy wings, 

sweat the palms

of complacent hands.

 

so if the dust

that surrounds you

is flurried,

sacred feathers

are ruffled,

& clenched palms

reveal a bright sheen

of fresh sweat or blood,

it is fair game 

to consider yourself

among the truthtellers

 

& your tenure as a poet

has begun.                    

 

 

© 2004 Spiel

 

 

on words & Up words

Spiel 

spielspeak@earthlink.net


Weighing In

Weigh a pint of the blood 

	of the homo soldier - 

	splattered on his foe,

also a hero - 

	dying for his cause - 

	his country - 

	what he believes is right.

Weigh the blood of the hero foe.

Weigh the blood of the homo hero.

Weigh the blood of every proud soldier 

	downed by friendly fire

and the blood of every proud soldier 

	who fired upon him.

 

Tell all their kids 

	in pints, pounds, or buckets 

	the quantity of their loss.

 

Does a pint of the blood 

	of the homo at war    

	weigh less in a jar? 

than a pint of blood 

	sapped from his foe?

or a pint of the stuff 

	from your average Joe? 

 

Compare to a pint 

	of dirt or sand,       

                    a pint of gold or a pint of lead.

 

Weigh a pint of the blood 

	of the homo soldier.

 
Phone his mother her son is dead.
 
 
copyright 2003 spiel 


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