The Bush’s Roots

(a Thanksgiving’s grieving)

by Michael P Amram

Air knew no ground with boots
on it and
speed sucked desert wind with
ultra-sonic sound

So they pounded….
to compound more

in hopes of silencing
messengers —
ceramic nomads, cells of
twisted ties

they struck at night
thirty counts a raid

like bowling — turkeys fell
and freshened
in the next frame like cartoon

my god — they’d strike from planes
at night when
turkeys should get some sleep
to be rested

to lose their heads
and roll there eyes

and pilgrims adjourn their
as Governor Bradford
rebuts his speech

retracting clauses
redacting pauses in
the lexicon that allowed
religions to pervert and
reach out to kill the world…

but now I see fighter planes
repelling leaks —
cells that human androids keep —
wear like leeches

mid-evil barbers who’d seek
to drain trios
of demons from their souls
ten a swoop

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