Conspiracies On the grassy knoll five black swans wearing government-issue Rolex watches take flight in a vapor rising from a white lake in a Chinese fairy tale none of the many witnesses buried alive in the lost pages of books consigned to flame when barbarian horsemen sacked the sources of wisdom even turned to look or made a notation on the pulsing walls of the black hole that swallowed everything that remained.
Buffalo Bill's Wild West How long had I been on this drunk? Invention of the light bulb (1879) Aspirin (1899) Familiar ringing as it grows darker Outside my mind and the first strip mall Goes up amidst wandering tribesmen Late for the Ghost Dance. Civilization rolls out like new floral Pattern carpet for The Blue Hotel The Church of Science, schoolhouse, general store, Saloon, blacksmith shop, auto dealership, Radio station playing those demented Golden oldies: 'Torch this Villageš by Blue Riders of the Premium Sage, 'Scalp' by The King's men, 'Smallpox Blanket Blues' by little Pontiac and the Imperials. If you call 'coming to' it's Saturday night over A hundred years ago at Molly's Saloon Where the drinking continues And the heavily drugged grizzly bear spurred on by enthusiastic whistles and shouts Of encouragement from the burly crowd of Trappers and miners watching The stage show begins to perform admirably Nearly crushing the sweaty body of Colorado Gertie, stripper and former opera singer, In his furry embrace. I'm trying to read the paper as the words Swim and waddle: import of Chinese laborers assailed, Riots in San Francisco, Geronimo sent southeast In a boxcar, famous writer jailed in Mexican War protest, Mercury in the long tom eats a man's hand Mormon uprising called threat to Union. . . . But here it is: a brownish picture: Buffalo Bill, The new toast of London, shows admiring Queen Victoria The first scalp taken to avenge Custer. The stiff figure holds out what looks like a Bird's nest, the royal hand reaches out. . . .a commotion rocks My admiring reverie, some Sioux Passing through the crowd of roaring Hunters selling antelope musk wafers, peyote Buttons, root wrapped in greasy burlap. 'From my medicine pouch, give vision of Horse Fathers, dime or a drink, says The would-be shaman. 'I've got your vision' Right here, you greasy worm,' snarls Peckerwood Archie, retired buffalo hunter, Breaking the red man's nose with a blow From his sledgehammers first. Something always seems to happen to spoil A night of good fun, however, and just then In ominous peals of new Age music, a speck Inside the mirror increases in size Until the deputy sheriff steps Backwards out of the glass. As usual, he is dressed in the latest New York City fashions. I knew it was too late to make a run for it. Glowering, dangling gun hand by Colt 45 he haunches into a lengthy diatribe Against the Turner Thesis and heaps ridicule On Leakey's theory on the Origin of man. This elicits a loud horse laugh From a well-dresses stranger named Senor Palomino, who stands at the bar Bolting down shots of oat vodka. The lawman and the stranger flash Threatening looks at each other. Just then the tense moment is shattered By the loud groans of the bear And the dance hall girl Who are enjoying a simultaneous orgasm. Before anyone can react a hand Reaches over my shoulder and switches channels Helicopters firing Rockets into a fishing village Red ambulance lights revolving Serb gunners setting up on The hills outside Guernica 'Nothing good on tonight,' a slurred voice says. I drain my glass, already despondent over a recent Divorce. There is a long shot of outer space. Pocked with black holes And dwarfed in stars.
Michael Shorb has lived in California most of his life. His work reflects an abiding interest in myth, history, and the lyrical form, as well as a satirical focus on present day trends and events. His poems have appeared in over 150 magazines and anthologies, including The Nation, The Sun, Michigan Quarterly Review, Kansas Quarterly, and Rain City Review.