Poor Richard

An antiwar cut-up poem.

This poem is written in a cut-up style, inspired by techniques once used on magnetic tape. Fragments are spliced with quotes from Benjamin Franklin, one of the Founding Fathers of the United States. He’s words are italicized throughout.

Pallets pulled from the plane,
filled fresh with 100 dollar bills and a blue stripe that looks like 
Benjamin Franklin's tears.
Tears to counter counterfeits that cost a dime to ink,
the dime which carries the impression of peace
in the form of an olive branch.
These pallets of 99.90s rushed down the bay of the C-130s
eager to enter up-armored Chevy Suburbans with their doors 
open like legs
in the strip clubs just outside the gates
next to the pawn shops —
small businesses,
the backbone of the economy.

There never was a good war or a bad peace.

Stateside, children draw and color American flags
with stars where stripes should be, and
a little green guy with a gun
shouts thank you,
misspelled,
into a bubble over his head,
as if exploding.
33 Crayola crayon-drawn 8.5x11s
stuffed in a manila envelope
sent priority express to Richard overseas,
tracing a trail of condensate crystals in the sky.

Nothing dries sooner than a tear.

Spouting red mist from the sand like a whale
s i g h i n g
as a land mine is found again —
the POOOOOOOF
calls the end of the day.
Whisper-footing back on their own steps
to collect the all-seeing eye
on a one dollar bill.
Thank you Richard, for your service.

Ignorance leads men into a party, and shame keeps them from getting out again.

A prisoner sits down in a well,
waiting,
we don't do that here, we're Americans,
at least give him a bucket for business and food.
Just one is fine: reduce, reuse, recycle. 
Richard's manila envelope, name crossed out,
stuffed with bawling Benjamins,
flows hand-to-hand.

If you have no money in your pot, have some in your mouth.

Shuffling in line at Kentucky Fried Chicken,
on the base,
in a war,
not a war,
an ongoing operation,
the janitor self-detonates,
or tries to,
a free wire opened the circuit.
Richard's envelope with last prayers
found between the shirt and the vest.

A full belly is the mother of all evil.

Idling engines with an IV drip of fuel
r u m b l e,
for the procession of armored vehicles moonlighting
as hearses after hours —
inefficiently expending gasoline as such slow speeds
shipped straight from the states on ocean liners —
leaving a shimmering sheen of oil in their wake.

Beware of little expenses, a small leak will sink a great ship.
 
Draped in a flag,
m e t h o d i c a l l y and ceremonially, 
the casket containing Richard's envelope — 
the only passenger.
With Benjamin deplaned,
Richard finally has plenty of room to breathe.

Death takes no bribes.