JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

From the darkness shading
from the hills
from the spires
a crackle, a cough,
a tenor thrown against
the blanket of night
to shatter it

From the anthills
from the depths of caves
from earth, cracks caked
and split apart by drought
from dank air
and water polluted
to splatter it

From hidden ghettoes
from notes placed
in drop off fissures
from bodies bent and pressed
to the cold ground
from computers whirring life
like so many spider webs

From huddle
from all-night coffee sessions
from schools, places of worship
gathering robes around
from queues at airports
weapons camouflaged 
from wings that pour
molten lead into the sky

From the heavens
a flock of winged predators
from instructions unfurled
from masks ripped open
from fire, from thunder
from two hundred burning passengers
from gaping caverns in shining columns
from white giants breaking down

From fleeing crowds
from debris whirling
from stairways imploding
from flying celluloid
unfinished dreams
from three thousand screams
collapsing like dominoes
into history’s demolition
sobbing

From footage played
again and over
reliving the dying
reviving the pain
eyes opening and closing
opening and collapsing
in terror undreamed
come nineteen
versions of paradise
finally attained

The wind is rising
in the trees, 
over the hills and spires
like a silver specter
it wails and falls
exhorting
commanding
the wind sweeps down
from the hills
its voice
is the voice of the Great Lie