Ross Vassilev- Two Poems

at the end

when the high noon of humanity

is forgotten

when all that's left of their shit-stupidness

is dim fading memories

when the sun turns red

before the endless summer night

of the Siddhas

at the end

there will only be left

the Buddha-soul:

beautiful,

perfect,

all-knowing;

like a blossom in the eye of a God.

flags

if I could play guitar

I'd sing a sad, sad, song

for all the fiery red anarchists

of yesteryear

who threw bombs at the police in alleys

assassinated kings and presidents

and drew funny little cartoons

about hanging the Pope

all those lost souls

raging with idealism

now forgotten as ferns

in this modern world of McDonald's

and Godzilla remakes

all those poor anarchists

each with a heart bigger than

all of Wall Street

each and every one

crushed under the boots

of the Bolsheviks

or hanged

after the police opened fire

on each other

at Haymarket Square

all of them murdered

shot

destroyed

gutted

while the Gods marched

in lock-step with the fascists

it's all so sad

too sad to remember

or write about

as the 1% finish the job

they started

under

Truman.