The Boarding
Why are we so different–
the tolerant, unaccepting of hatred,
the benevolent but angry–
Why? And why are we so few?
Is it because we have not divorced
ourselves from parchment promises
of happy pursuits?
Is it because we have not packaged
throbbing brains and beating hearts
in suitable boxes, gift wrapped,
postage paid, and sent them off
to the Inspector of Shadows
for proper disposal?
I have failed again,
my brother, to obtain royal
imprimatur to hum the tune
that once made me joyous.
I cannot produce, when asked,
the proper document stamped
with authority’s red wax;
I have been deemed different
and must now face the blade.
They will sever vocal cords
with a single stroke,
and our crimson happiness
will drain and rain in torrents
into the meandering river of tears
that evaporates in a hate-scorched desert
where there is no pulse to beat a rhythm,
no soul to breathe a melody,
no brain magic to conjure lyrics,
no life permitted to birth a dissident tune.
The songs once sung with heart,
choruses of overcoming,
symphonies of questioning,
paeans of love
now boxed and forgotten,
scratched vinyl records in search
of turntables and needles,
shoved in a musty basement corner
where new hands might pick one out
blow off the dust, trace the grooves
and say, This must have meant something
at one time. Yes, this must have been important.
Then drop it back in the grave. Who is left to listen?
Are the lyrics of brotherhood
too difficult to sing?
Has the nation gone tone deaf,
or cowardly to let someone sing
in a slightly different key? No, no.
Such dissonance cannot be permitted.
The conductor in ghastly black tails
screws up his death mask features
and in anger strikes the baton on his stand.
My song is offensive,
my presence repugnant,
my existence regrettable.
Geh weg! Sie sind nict gesucht,
he screams, stomping black boots.
And you are banished as his band
of horn-blowing elephants,
with a merry martial tune, strikes
the patriots into fervor.
The back roads of America are pock-marked with corpses.
Bodies of innocents who could not be cured by prayer,
like potholes annoy but are forgotten in a mile or so.
Others too stubborn to convert to The Way, The Truth, The Life
prescribed by one hijacked republic
under God, with complicity or an iron fist for all,
molder in cornfields or deep in the amber waves.
What the world has learned
from principled wounds of the past,
absorbed by martyrs gone to dust
in smoldering buses in Mississippi
and in a Greenwich Village tavern
or in a $28 cabin by Walden Pond
under corroding stones on unclean graves
is this, just this:
blood shed for any cause
congeals purple and dries,
crusts like burnt brown sugar
and falls away in quiet disintegration
leaving only a scar, hardly noticeable.
All is scar tissue–
the marches and speeches, only scars,
the campaigns and essays, also scars,
the noble crusades turned to fairy tale drek,
scars, all scars,
but nothing that a little plastic cannot fix.
And for the true progressive
with those irreparable birthmarks
that brand all free thinkers,
expert help is available to us,
at cost to us, of course,
to prevent the dawn of a welfare state.
What cannot be healed by a cold, hard shot
of the evangelist’s palm against your forehead
can at least be hidden.
A technician, between cups of tea,
will apply layer on layer of makeup,
use a palate knife if necessary,
compose us like a Cezanne landscape–
Oh, the wonders of modern cosmetology–
and make us, make up, made into
their image–like it or not.
What do the high priests suggest?
Those who sit before chrome vaults
assault rifle across the lap
waiting for new profit reports
from Wall Street, Medellin, Saudi Arabia,
what do they suggest when
the calloused, outstretched hands
of mothers reach for their gilded robes,
hoping to be graced with
just one sympathetic sigh
to help feed children with no future
past their next mouthful of crumbs?
Begone! they shout, shaking free
and nudging shoulders with their guns.
God will provide, they laugh. Go find him.
Away they stride, leaving women and waifs
with a bitter wafer of propaganda
that melts on the tongue
and fills the mouth with blood.
When the elders sink so far down
in their stiff white collars that they are blind
when the shepherd devours the lamb at will,
should the flock not be afraid?
Saturday morning in the park:
A young father walks a fresh-faced toddler
who absorbs all with baby-blue innocence,
smiles at gray passersby and tries
to pry a smile in return.
He fails without knowing why.
And what will be made of him,
this empty vessel, this lump of clay
waiting to be shaped into the future?
Will he become the bellwether who
leads with a peaceful heart
and a fair-minded compass,
or will he guide the flock over
the cliff and into a hissing black ocean?
Crowds gather on the docks of the land.
Suitcases packed and stacked;
guitars slung over shoulders,
we squeeze our children’s hands
and press closer to the gangplank,
waiting, waiting to scramble aboard
freighter, tramp steamer, cruiser,
any vessel departing for points unknown.
There is no fanfare or confetti,
no brass bands or fluttering handkerchiefs,
just a light honeysuckle scent of hope
that beyond beckoning whitecaps
and tumbling green waves, far from
the barbed wire boundaries
of a nation full of locked doors
is an isle where we can play our music
without censure or condition.
And so, we board, without farewell,
because they do not want us,
do not want us,
do not want us.
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FRANK J. ALBERT lives in Western Pennsylvania and has taught Humanities courses in several Pittsburgh area colleges. His work has appeared in literary journals including Cedar Rock, Armstrong Literary, Orchards Poetry Journal, Quarter Notes, and Literary Heist. He is working on self-publishing a book of poems and writing a collection of short fiction.