AT THE BOTTOM OF THE DUNGHEAP

Poetry

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED]

BY RUI CARLOS DA CUNHA

To make a choice in war, the right side, the wrong side, only history knows.

Or is it a matter of conscience? Of the soul? Ethics, morality?

Mark my words. History knows nothing of the past. We rewrite the future.

Arguments pro and con decide nothing but words and how we use language.

Killing time. Killing flies. How do we spend our time? Honestly, burning files.

Evidently, the past gets reinterpreted every time parties shift.

Arguments pro and con decide nothing but words and how we use language.

Conscience is a matter of individual decision-making skills.

History knows nothing of the soul, of conscience. But to decide what's best.

Obscured in the present by fog, by mist, by tears. The past remains hidden.

Indoctrination is not a choice but a web of superstitious lies.

Clearly, no one knows how historians obscure time with their agendas.

Evidently, the past gets reinterpreted every time ideas shift.

Interpreting the past is ideology. The dominant structure.

No one knows why we kill the enemy in war and drink in times of peace.

Women and men decide morality to teach their children the right way.

Arguments pro and con decide nothing but words and how we use language.

Reason sifts through the past, events to catalog, righteous or infamous.

Tomorrow, I wake up, write another poem contradicting this one.

Honesty is the best policy, as they say. We believe in such lies.

Evidently, war knows nothing of the future. Assumptions for Balaam.

Reason sifts through the past, events to catalog, righteous or infamous.

Inventing history is for our survival. Each person must decide.

Given the expertise of each historian in policy-making.

Humanity must choose whom to kill during war. Who is my enemy?

Trust neither right nor left. Extremes create bias. Everyone bears witness.

Sinister, the Southpaw with a killer right hook. The boxer knows torture.

In our uncertainty, we overcome anguish produced by past trauma.

Decision-making is an art, fortune telling as prognostication.

Evidently, the past opens up to the sky. Souls fly into the light.

Trauma is not torture but a maturation process. Events ripen.

History unveils truth as a four-fold structure in the tree of knowledge.

Evidently, the past became anathema to the values of truth.

Witness the creation of the book industry and the death of ethics.

Religion has a say in what people believe is good, moral and true.

Observe the printing press reinvent history and criminal justice.

Notice how corruption is a slippery slope like black strap molasses.

Given the enterprise of judgment and systems of slavery, who wins?

Systems are difficult to observe their functions with moral agreement.

If the majority ruling class has no checks to balance their ethics.

Decisions create war. How are we not bored, yet? Why this fascination?

Evidently, war is profit and big business like global slavery.

Observe the lawmakers lining up to be shot in a revolution.

Nervous, trigger-happy soldiers armed with machine guns shoot legislators.

Lawyers, the first to die in a revolution. But not a rebellion.

Yesterday, I woke up and decided to write about Afghanistan.

Hungry to understand why the dominoes fall in global politics.

Invent technology to subvert history as a global arms race.

Struggle invites struggle, solutions to problems, singular for each soul.

Transient is the man digging through garbage cans for food and drink to live.

Observe the newspapers feed us information about global problems.

Resolve to imagine a world without bloodshed, without war, without fear.

Yesterday, I woke up to write a short poem about love but I failed.

Killing time before death. Killing flies in our home. Domiciles are unreal.

No one questions the truth because facts and science ground our reality.

Observe authority abuse humanity because they have power.

Windows open and shut as eyelids blink and close to sleep for a moment.

Skilled in analysis, no one listens to words written by a poet.