CONFESSION ZERO

This is not a poem. I am waiting. Waiting. Waiting for peace to break out. Waiting for the rain to stop. Holding on for dear life. Holding. Holding. Holding on for Guantanamo, for Abu Ghraib, for God. This is not a poem. Sensing the time has come. Wait. Wait for Human Rights waiting to fly by, waiting for the light to change. I’m waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for torture in my name. Clear Skies, Clean Air, Healthy Forest, Truthiness and Lies. No Tree Left Behind. Arsenic and Lakes, tapped lead, Mountain Top mine, his and hers mining. This is not a poem. I am waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for peace to break out. Waiting for the rain, to conquer the oil, the dirty air to conquer the fear in itself to conquer the queers and despair and to conquer space, the unknown frontier, Pre-war, pre-9/11, pre-earth, pre-heaven air. I’m waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting on the Duct Tape To be cause the Levee’s busted or n