The big claims of the powerless are not notably more interesting
than the big claims of the powerful. The first inspire pity
the others, fear. Together they make a parody
of the tragic. Now and again in our prisoners’ class
someone, a new arrival or a loquacious con man
takes over. Pushing his big claim up front
a rickety cart laden with dubious “goods,” slightly tainted
virtuous side upward.
He would die, in sum, for this or that. (I forget what)
Our fingers drum. The words of dead heroes
twitch in our hands like a struck face.
Like torches stuck in the ground, a night encampment
an unwearied courage; thought plays, light and shadow cross
a mad general flays the air
A mad president charts, premises, promises. A seductive
foreshortening
of the long march.
“Take over—revolution—consciousness 3.” Eyes cloud.
Have heard it all before, have heard it all
before, heard it all, all before
before