WEBVTT

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It's so hard-- I
wrote these poems.

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They're all political poems
about the war, what things were

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really going on about the war.

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And I have the feeling
that we've really

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been conned somehow,
that we really

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don't think about
it anymore and act

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as though it's not happening.

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And I think I feel it
in myself somewhat,

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that just out of
touch we've been

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treated with such contempt.

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That we almost
don't exist anymore.

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There's just this
government doing things.

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"The only way it
makes sense is that we

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have terrible wounds inside
us like mouths, hard metallic,

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made in America.

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They swing fatly
open like wallets,

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and gorge in strict vaginal
contractions, what touches us.

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What comes to us
living, wants us.

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How many times the one we
kiss with affirms life, life,

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but the other, when the saints
said they heard thunder,

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it was just it closing.

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And this time when it opens,
corpses soar in it, officers

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at attention, shells.

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This time not enough
pain in all Asia for it.

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I want you not comforting me.

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The soles of our feet
beaten until worms of flesh

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erupt from them, our genitals
dialed like wrong numbers.

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Don't put your tongue in me.

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Don't give me anything, heart,
soul, laughter anything.

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Children turning the light
on and off, on and off.

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Ma, don't feed me.

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Don't feed me."

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That was called "The Undead."