controlled explosions
 

 
 america and i love controlled
 explosions, explosions more than control
 but on control contingent: sigh of pressure
 sealed can pop promising more greater sighs;
 recursive chip driven injection upon
 incendiary injection pound the pistons out
 pound me hollering down america's ragged redline
 highway; pound four two thousand pound LGBU
 bunker buster bombs down with aplomb on
 apartment complex teatime a dream
 of hitler laid open on the guillotine
 the regime a headless menace and the kebob
 shack intact, roads raked from rubble clear
 enough to drive a bulldozer down and later,
 shrouded bodies, parts, stone and teeth
 rattling in the bed, a pickup truck
 back up; explosion, fire on the tv a wick
 of bone burning off the oils of sacrifice
 combined, of the ancient tank its three-
 man crew and the chemical magma that first
 ignited it, "live" on primetime, backdrop
 to our safe american evening, vehicle of
 the many smaller explosions we may adore
 or buy, a flame of memory, like those of
 kennedy and other honored unknown fedayin,
 calling the roll of the dead again, stay
 tuned, we'll be back with a report
 from the scene of attack; then the sponsors
 control their own explosions, electron beam
 on screen, icon on retina, endocrine bath
 rushing rupturing creating desire, effacing
 all the faceless nameless dead, quick
 controlled bursts of hope punctuate
 dread tidings of the futile news, thanks
 for staying tuned, now we've got the general
 in the room to tell us what to do. my
 america and i our digits fumble the buttons
 on the controller, switch it over in spasms
 of light to someone else's volatile plight--
 fiction, foreigner or pariah class, so long
 as and better him than me--in love with
 our controls our options enamored in the
 zoroastrian pageantry of fire, our pyrotechnics
 of myopic vengeance and of our own desire.

- michael provost

---

 
 
 

an introduction from, and the gift that is now, Michael Provost:

 
 

hello  editor
 

 i had a vision
 
 years ago on the cusp of
 
 the internet age
 
 
 
 all the world's bhikkus
 
 monks, aspirants and sages
 
 sitting, practicing
 
 
 
 cultivating each
 
 in her own place, communing
 
 interconnected,
 
 
 
 in sacred group art
 
 of chat-room haiku writing:
 
 digerati tao
 
 
 
 and here you are. (bad
 
 haikus, sorry). rather, here
 
 one of you is, now.
 
 
 
 let's get a chat room
 
 going, to share our pearls of
 
 koanic wisdom.

 
 
 t h o u s a n d s   o f   p o e t s ,   one voice
 
 

    back    go          
go   forward

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