Faces Blanket the Sunrise as the Neo-Cons Lie

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I.

The solar axis of each yellow flower tilts
with the planet's core.

The nuclear government maneuvers
top of the front page,
though did we read its logic
dug out of a smoldering medieval psyche,
contemporaneous, onerous,
vituperative and sly, beamed up
from regular internal combustion

into guilt-ridden dump-holes
charged with brass rifling a single note
vigilant citizens have tried
to identify with.

II.

Someone learns from these guys
and finds herself trolling
underbridges of religious forethought
through which the mirrors fly and break,

as simple eventually as hearing the tough
circling brushes of an industrial vacuum
plugged nearby, then far off into a river,

and you have locked dog
faces in the hell holes of dangerous employment,
a lost jet vanishing in skylines of armor rattles,
dry-shaking at the top of old cottonwoods.

III.

Somebody's going to recast this film pretty soon,
so we'd better get going down here
in front of the billion faces
blanketing the sunrise
with charcoaled and vaporous earnestness.

We are born, and again, and then again,
each time the sun swells
from equators of its compass arms.

As always, we are concurrent with the river water
which has never been here talking with us
like it is suddenly. And never been flying over
the marsh in libidinous spurning
through onward purging of sedentary
impulse become so much
with a single word from Mr. Rove.