Jack Scott writes

They, the People?

There is room within recalcitrance 
for sheer audacity to seat committees 
casting leaden ballots 
and voting shooting war. 
Underquorumed, 
(They, some People) 
their ballets should be as glass, 
hard as bullets, but transparent 
so the shell-pocked acres 
of far strewn body parts 
and napalmed skin, 
no longer act as dam 
to keep the level of spilled blood 
from reaching our newspapers.

Too late, 
the trail of ink tracks 
leads back to signatories 
after the deed is done, 
but before page one; 
the blood has clotted before the ink is dry.

Hail, the black and white 
that is the flag of wars; 
our Leading Citizen is now John Gray. 
John Doe, our Unknown Patriot, 
is dead and disremembered, 
a victim of the carnage.

There is room 
within so-called democracy 
for vacancy 
so that the rent-free few       
can assign the maybe to the many:
their John (not Patrick) Henry’s on the dotted line 
and each lottery is won by someone else 
drawing all attention to their checks 
as big as sheets of plywood 
while each election stays 
well within extended clan 
who paid top dollar for it, 
while denouncing living wage 
as a communistic ploy.


The rib Adam once hosted 
‘ere his surgery by god, 
evolution co-opted 
as a tool that it could use. 
Thus, begats were begotten 
and a family was started 
much like the dysfunctional ones 
we have today.

The unbroken line of this genealogy 
is a one-way street. 
(Evolution does not retreat.) 
Adam’s Army has many ranks: 
privates, corporals, sergeants, 
who march in one direction only: 
toward the Bad Man, the Other. 
Target men, expendable, 
trained by national psychology 
to kill and not be killed 
shipped over foreign seas, 
marched over distant lands, 
(To Adam, where is foreign?), 
armed by physics, 
applied and theoretical, 
used tactically, strategically 
to occupy all Eden, the Homeland,
by force if necessary, 
which it is and always will be.

We’ve also had our Eva Brauns 
knitting ‘neath her lampshades 
and our Lizzie Bordens, 
but relatively inconspicuous 
by the faintness of her footprints.
Throughout history 
there is a another thread, 
not a subplot of the larger tale 
which we could aptly call 
The Maulers and the Healers.

Mothers, sisters, daughters, 
they’re all Eve, still waiting. 
God gave them patience 
while overdosing Adam 
with testosterone. 
Hopefully, we’re approaching 
the curtain of Act One 
and not the ending of the play. 

Eve should take her cue 
from what Adam’s done
and cast herself as neither victim nor enemy, 
for if, with her growing power, long overdue, 
she makes of him her foe 
she’s gained neither justice nor equality, 
but merely turned the table 
to play his own hand 
against himself 
and, therefore, all.

The problem is a flawed design 
back on the drawing board. 
Eve was sketched as Adam’s mate,
but as ribs go, he could just as easily 
have been made from one of hers. 
When there were only two of them 
living on the planet 
there must have been 
repressed repression, 
for man has a basic need
which can be fulfilled by women 
only when other men are not around, 
but that is not first preference.

Later, 
not too much later, actually, 
Man was at last free 
to act out his stifled fantasies. 
War was declared by degrees, 
when there were as many men, 
who engaged in the battle 
that will never end.

But no one’s ever thought 
to have a good look at it, 
and also what’s behind it. 
The cause of war 
is as clear as it can be, 
namely: 
we all need an enemy 
far more than we’ll ever need a friend.