I would harm a fly
but only by accident.
For there is already enough apathy
within these mired and trumped walls
to wipe out a nation of magnanimous spirits.
I step among the filthy, cracked
sidewalk as golden bricks
are shoveled into a white house.
The fly in the ointment keeps blaming
the other fly in the ointment.
I, the pacifist, finally decide
to lay down in the middle of this land
and die from the unrestricted greed
and noxious air which has enveloped
the entirety of this Human Experience.
Socially Acceptable Sadism
An eye for an eye
and a Truth for a Truth.
You can bandage these war scars
but you cannot hide their botchy skin hues.
Vestiges of the innocent blood you so recklessly shed.
The eye patch may look like
a fashion accessory but I see through it all.
I glimpse the terror that shines from that missing eye
frightening children with its voided gaze of sheer violence
honed to the point of communicating lunacy and fear.
Now, in the aftermath of your chaos,
you play the victim as if there is
no such thing as an American terrorist.
From all corners, from every nook
and cranny, they have come to be here—
to parade and bask in the effervescent shine
pouring through the air—to clasp that air
within their lungs—to thrive and breathe together the air—
such an abundance of various face and skin,
heart and mind—all marching together,
all so human—wearing badges of life
as clothes, a random tapestry of colors and heritage
wove itself among the parade, mingling
together in a sudden swirl of worldly beauty—
it was as if in that brief instant the Earth had owned a collective pulse—
from out the vast collection of flowing and abundant life
it seemed almost possible to behold the meandering stream of Humanity
leading up to the presence of this glorious Ocean before our eyes—
the deep stretching of human lineage seemed almost at hand,
almost at home, almost as if right in front of us.
So many different flags gathered as one,
whispering through the air so gorgeously human,
that the sameness and the difference are equally beautiful.
When your eyes suddenly fell out,
leaving you blind as a bowl of soup,
you frantically began feeling around the floor.
On your hands and knees, crawling carefully
to make sure you didn’t crush
one of them with your four-legged steps.
Feeling nothing but grunge and grime on the that old linoleum,
you became more panicked with each passing second,
realizing, now that your eyes have fallen out,
just how filthy this world has truly become.
The spirit has slowly evaporated,
gradually turned jaded throughout the years,
quelled, wrecked by the jarring persistence of cacophony
that pours through the veins and hallways of this world.
Inspiration melted to a feeble pulp by the noisy noose
of the boisterous trucks and verbose dogs
that populate the neighborhood, filling the air,
the never-silent wind, with an incessant clamor.
The poet’s soul will soon be laid to rest among the din.
Heath Brougher is the poetry editor for Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and recently won the 2018 Poet of the Year Award from Taj Mahal Review. He has published 6 collections of poetry, the newest being “The Ethnosphere’s Duality” (Cyberwit, 2018).