17

I am the first soil,
the breeding ground
of all consciousness
that toll in windows.

Wine flows red on walls
where sirens interfere
with street walking
and thugs feast on visibility.

Money made the bombs
that charred the children.
A finger of power pointed.

Giants rolled down captured hills,
breaking into villages with cheers
with a world of free banking.
There is a need of fat children.

Free fall suicides,
dare devils the bible scribes forgot
while copying the Babylonian myths,
fall into dark rivers rising above
the footholds of Gilgamesh’s mountain.

Today it is a river of tears
That runs through the broken valleys
where once cedar and cannabis spiced the air
and dark olive was a stream
long before the flood.

No shepherd ever strapped
belted death to his day,
no goat ever went missile
for the sake of a different tale
where Ur does not echo.

Shamash! Ki!
The Sumerian ghosts
hold down the spirit
while villages bleed.