INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Gerald Clark
Martin Camps &
M. J. Iuppa
is an independent International Journal & ezine
Copyright (c) 2012
Fred Wolven
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NEW YORK, MAY 29, 2002 The last warped beams have gotten barged out to Fresh Kills From the smoking, powdered basements of Ground Zero. My husband begins his new job in Murray Hill Tomorrow morning. He stays alive, no hero. We both got downsized by toppling towers without Getting crushed between floors, have eaten only jam Sandwiches for months now. Who can complain about This while we are still breathing airborne toxins damn Fiercely, inhaling the gray ash of our neighbors Who thus will never be entombed until we are? Wall Street workers trudge about graveyards and labor In the mud of corpses, run the company car Over blackened bones--in other words, the City Is back to business as before, much the pity. HOW THINGS HAVE GOTTEN TO THIS POINT While tyrants stalk us, ardent academicians Bury their noses deeper in their dusty books And ignore our shouts in the street for physicians For this sick city. "Yes," these inveterate schnooks Mutter to themselves in the library's corners, "I'll write an article about this injustice For a geopolitical journal!" Mourners Wail outside the window of the flying-buttressed Ivory tower, but these thinkers' protest march Is to the stacks, not to the bunkers, not to fight, Not even with their words, in the bloodied boulevards. Today's Christalnacht is tomorrow's chapter's note, Not a wrong to right today--just a new wrong note. Anne Babson, New York City
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