Can you forgive him?
Father, my Father,
the horsemen of Israel,
the chariots thereof.
There's a corporation,
Father, called Oil,
which drills blood
from the earth and spills
it into the sea.
Military actions have
occurred, called
Operation Guiltless,
Operation Purify,
Operation Shining Example.
In Germany, water
cannon sweep youths
from the streets
like trash; cable TV
gazes monoptically
and banks speak money
like language.
The required funds
go trilling down
electronic pathways.
But with the poor
money turns capillary:
governments exist
to manage them. Father,
is there martial
law where you are?
Has a state of
emergency been declared,
perhaps a curfew,
a temporary suspension
of civil rights?
Have broadcasts been
jammed, foreign
embassies closed,
normal communications
interrupted? In short,
are you really
our sort of person?
A series of objects
called People
profile the horizon:
some fall down
broken, while others
are only hungry.
Their dollar-value is
less than trees
in the rainforest, since
plywood is here
for us all. Power
masquerades as
explanation, except
when it's explained
that the authorities
are powerless.
Father, where we are
there is a naked
furnace of greed
called Sarajevo,
Rwanda, Kabul, Somalia,
where thousands
achieve closure with
your name on their
lips. The logic of this
explodes like a mine
under a child's legs—
do you get the picture?
Or is it that you've
lost your religion,
and current profitability
studies no longer
support the option of
divine intervention
on the open markets?
Father, where we are
there is a planet
freaked with blood,
and a God-shaped hole,
and the diligent
brutality of Money.