XXI.

Is there a rain strong enough to wash away
Times Square, to fill that aquarium
of light with water, to douse that borealis
among buildings, to overrun that eddy

of electricity, to flood out those secret
aqueducts of commerce? Out of that square,
a beast’s breath sucks recruits through two glass
doors, exhales a draft sufficient to float

the world’s gun metal gray. Here, 400 miles
away, I yell for rain, even though I know
only a patient pulling of plugs will end

those lights, return stars to the city,
and blow away the colorful cold
front stationed there.

XXII.

Across Franklin Street, beside a letter box,
a counter-protestor mocks us, while
wearing a stars and stripes bikini.
Boys surround her, as if she is

their mascot: an anorexic lady liberty,
a picture at the center of a brick wall.
I think about the scene’s inception,
the moment they said, ‘Yes, we’ll

show those hooligans. We will rub vacation
and flesh in their faces.’ Her body is a thin
adjective: Her tit offers only its own image.

This is what we’re fighting for,
the boys say by patting her back,
hoping to win one war after another.


XXIII.

At a protest in Chapel Hill, a boy in black
blocades his parent’s blue-lit station wagon,
while lights swirl on a walking mob. He jeers
and taunts the chrome, behind, honking.

Rallied below well-dressed bottles,
the crowd circles in the intersection’s
center. The boy breaks out a flag no one
would hang, but perhaps put on a grave

or wave at a parade. It is stapled
to the edge of a brittle pine pole.
Old polyester glory, a symbol

for simple emphasis. (Words do not mean what
they once did). Camera men take position, the bottles lean in:
flag smoke smells of ignorance and freedom combined.

XXIV.

Last night in the bookstore, a peacenik
described torture in detail. The etc, he said.
And the audience, on seats edge,
listened aghast and left with renewed vigor

for their fight, and the swagger of a good
meal finished. What do you do when
condemnation is your red ticket inside?
when your enemy’s actions

become a nourishment of their own?
Violence cannot remain unsaid,
but what of a mind’s request to romp

among heinous detail? This landscape
offers exercise, but no health. All while a pathless mountain stands behind.