It’s possible to destroy even hell
And turn evil to dust
With the dropping of shell after shell.
What remains is one man’s lust
Mating with his own cold will,
Giving birth to blood and rust.
Each bullet or bomb’s a pill
That plugs a hole in his brain,
Which is still,
As is Ukraine,
Where a young child fell
And didn’t get up again —
Her killer dares her now to tell.
Cold air slipped in the window
Left open overnight.
It’s 100 below zero
And all is either black or white.
Ice leans against our home
As if meaning to fight.
The wind chants a lifeless Om.
“This is our new Ice Age
Under a sun silver as chrome,”
Says the nodding sage.
There’s no bitterness or woe
I could scratch on this page —
The ink has ceased to flow.
His own minion in that nation,
He eats like a king, thinks like a stool.
All of his words are defecation.
His actions insipidly cruel,
He pounds his fist on the able,
Whips his army like a mule.
Hacksaw and hammer and Babel
Bang on the running heads
Of corpses on the embalming table.
He dreams of flowing Red,
Of flags and blood, this revelation:
The elimination of the dead
And his exalted exaltation.
