JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

Memories are shuttered, packed away

in dream arsenals. Restless they struggle

to find a way out, release chained demons.

Overhead, metallic wings unfurl and swoop

eyes in the skies scan for any manifestations

of military activity.

 

Infants are scrutinized for signs of competitive

behavior, aggressive tendencies. Deviants are

lobotomized by mechanical surgeons. Boundaries

are abolished, flags ripped up or burnt. Houses

of worship closed, prayers and hymns banned.

 

A single universal language is taught in schools

pupils with identical pale brown skin color in

neat school uniforms and short haircuts sit in

endless rows and study poems of peace and order.

 

In a cellar under what used to be called North Korea

a wizened warrior is completing a book, printing copies

on an illegal duplicating machine. The book is

called Messiah and describes a world where war

does not end. Trumpets will sound the call. Armies

will mobilize, tractors will be converted into tanks,

the populace will be armed, weapons will be sold

in supermarkets. Forgotten rivalries will be rekindled,

street fighting encouraged.

 

The day will come, he writes. Time of steel and blood,

of valor and pride. Bravery that never ends.