I held a jewel in the palm of my hand,
She was hot to the touch and burned my skin
Lilac blue, I had found her nestled deep beneath the land
And as I coveted the stone, I felt a lurch come from within
I dropped the jewel, and she thoroughly embedded herself within a crack
Then I stared obtusely at my flesh, at the fresh, sizzling burn
And as close as the gem was, I realized I'd never get her back
And further more, all things considered, that I'd never learn
The Jewel smoldered away, emanating hate as I languished above
And eventually I walked away, hoping one day she might forget
There are few things in this world as mercurial as love
Derived from our desire, defined by our regret.
The television blares; three killed in some heinous crime
And patriotic bombs kill thousands somewhere poor
A local man with a plan get's a morsel of our time
The prize is sensationalism, albeit sanitized for gore
Next up is Hillary Clinton, reminding us that AIPAC owns our ass
And now three professional loudmouths slug it out on the Six o' clock news
One says a half-truth, another advocates moral cowardice en masse
And a third shrieks "Terrorism. That's right. You lose."
The Television blares; twenty children died today
Ingredients for such a massacre can be purchased at your local store
Corporate stooges attempt to keep their constituency neutered and at bay
The prize is complacency, for now and evermore.
I saw the whiskey bum by himself on the beach
His meager possessions strewn here and there about the shore
An empty pint, a well worn and slightly torn leather coat
A lone sock divorced and fuzzy like a peach
Created a shrine to his service, comprised of relics from the war
His eyes were two stones, cold and grey as the pacific itself
His leathery skin had a junkies unmistakable pallor
He languished, destitute, within the confines of his cell
Long since having fallen of life's continental shelf
And I thought "What would the president think of the tract marks on his arms,
Given his record of service and valor?"
He shot me wry smile, and as if reading my mind,
Said, "Cheer up boy, why you look so sad?
I got all I could ever need or be right here.
And I know it looks like I'm in a bind,
But this shot I'm cooking up is gonna be the best I ever had."
Day after tortuously sluggish day
I saw the life drain from his crumpled form
Until he was nothing but fetid skin and a heap of ragged cloth
Then the fire department came and took what was left of him away
To L.A.N.C, just another casualty of Operation Desert Storm.
Jens Nicholas Jebsen is a poet from Los Angeles. He is a devout lunatic with a penchant for the subversive.