fanfare for brass, percussion and strings

•


         morning. snow peaks glowing
  in alpine light. the clear blue eyes
   and stark standing posture,
          the iron-blue shadows, face
               of a warrior.
  horns calling among the dew-damp trees.
      far off, a glimpse of a horse,
   mythical rider, disappearing
    in mist, spirit
        of romance.
death and transfiguration. frost
    advisories, snowfall along the border,
          the watch on the potomac.
    department of fatherland security.
at a press conference the secretary
         of defense announces
the elimination of all unregulated
         forms of organic matter.
 a procession of heroes. lions
       of the old world. silhouetted
     on the high ridge.
          moist-eyed basketball games and
    weekend fishing trips of youth.
        the voice of the trumpet that calls out
     the end of the world.

     eyes bright with wonder.
             lightning, the discovery of fire. kneeling
          before the altar of the coffin. burning
       pyre. fisher king. the hook
        and the wound.
the stone figure prostrate with hands
           folded holding sword.
        fireflies in halflight, fireflies
          in moonlight.
 voice of the trumpet, lone call
           of the bugle, family gathered around
          an oblong box, silent
                                and looking downward.
          the clean-swept corners. the ground wet.
     somewhere in the room, a man
       mumbles something.
           fire pit, smoke from the mouth
           of the cave.
      the wound and the warrior, broken
            jawbone of conquest.
         the body sliced open, the organs
 removed, village of grass huts
       in flames, supreme sacrifice.

 gazing at the flagpole, alone
      on the grade school playground, the long
        mild summer.
               increased security presence, sheriff’s
      deputies brown-uniformed patrolling
 the shopping mall.
        selling red lacquer plastic poppies
             on the day of the dead.
      youthful clear-eyed face half in light,
   half in shadow. at an aunt’s house
         watching the rose bowl parade
       on color t.v.
       bodies lying in piles.
         orange alert. evacuation drill.
      we proceed in an orderly manner to
         the starbuck’s coffeeshop a block away.
             awaiting radio confirmation.
          apotheosis of blood and land.
       written warning. your attendance
          is unsatisfactory. announced
     another planned workforce reduction
        of 9 percent. posted
   a net loss for the third straight quarter.
      by directive from the office
  of personal hygiene and sanitation.

    ghost wind along the treeline, horns
        fading in gray light, evening.
           warm fingers, warm light, touch
        of cold air.
         tyrolia, bavaria, maryland,
              texas.
              smokestacks above the cinderblock building.
    odor of rotting vegetable fiber,
     steam and oxidation,
  reports in the news, complaints
       from the neighbors.
   gasoline fires around the bunkers.
  convoy of tanks and trucks barreling
      along the highway
      toward the city on the tigris, the sand-colored
   desert, t.v. camera jolting, salvation
  army, ladder to the stars.
  the autopsy report says traumatic amputation.
   the city at night brilliant
        with bomb flashes, pavement
    rocked with impact, smoke
   billowing on the horizon, candle flames
        by the still waters.
   the star quarterback shouts, steps back and
 looks to the future, hurls the ball into the air.
  gunfire rattling from the upper floors
 of a building, a spokesman denies
          the hotel was targeted,
      burned-out truck half a block
 up the street,
   alabama national guard platoon
        holding position waiting
         for the tanks to come in.
   people hurry away from storefronts.
melons and lemons by the streetside,
      cases of coca-cola, dvd’s
    of the latest mel gibson movie,
    prepaid phone cards,
  patrolling through the streets at nightfall,
           watching the rooftops, crowd of teenage boys
         in the intersection, sergeant
   with hand grenade pin and ring on
           his helmet wax pencilled “pull here,”
            soldier patrols the street at mid-day,
     face bored, eyes tense, says
       to whoever is nearby
   “i’m with the bureau
       of population reduction.”
            a day of yellow sun and green weather.
     the heart young and fresh with
    wild grass.
 the school principal, open-faced,
           high forehead, big hands, medium height,
at the kiwanis picnic, smiles
     and introduces the high school
    drum corps.
  the third grade teacher points at cuba
            on the map and warns the classroom
      “only 90 miles away!”
  on t.v. a man nods and says
            everything is different.
            on t.v. a man says we have three bullets.
  picture of face floating among clouds, dissolve
          to picture of flag floating in blue sky,
          with sound of violins
  and distant horns.
           the child runs out into the road,
         past the security line, toward
       the army truck convoy,
            she looks straight ahead,
          the lieutenant in charge of the platoon
   fires at her with his M-16,
     and she explodes.