Poetry by Neil Mincey
  Music 'Glimpse' by Ben Tyree
  Art by X-8
'Accordion (Music For A Dead Soldier)'  2006 X-8
Fortunate and the Occupied

Stand waiting for your fish basket,
fortunate one.

The blackening tide isn't carcinogenic
to people, conjugal or otherwise.

Octagon divided by two gets
a wingback through two walls.

On barstools later the same era,
generals and lower officers
ogle the nipple eyes
of provisionally liberated females.

If we're benevolent,
they won't know us
as the occupier.

Who cages their military,
kills progeny,
is their deliverer.

Just as we did for the Indian;
a cummerbund is better than
a buffalo skin.

The lifesavers come
in tank, in plane,
macramé streamers
of flesh left behind.
They can be thankful we
don't drop a mushroom
in every townyard.

My scissor for a gun jacket and
a tortoise-shell pipe full of opium.

A Middle Eastern musician
plays accordion for drunken
Leathernecks and contractors.
So arrogantly blasé, they appraise his talentS
Hey Timberlake, where's Britney?
What's this weird bread on our table?

Meanwhile, down in the monkeybox,
Skimmer Ned puts a necklace
around a copper insurgent,
and a checkmark by his name:
Died while being interrogated.

The fearmonger made us do it.
The black gold.
The pool strainer in the hand
of our undocumented servant.

I like to stimulate myself and others
in groups of three or more.

Custom made Botox kits
currently assemble themselves
in Chinese free-trade factories.

'Suicide of the Idol '  2006 X-8
As We Wait
he retires to his bedroom.

We sit on the lawn, stand on
his sidewalk, lean against
walls at the entrance.

A maid yells, "Come back
tomorrow," nobody leaves.
"No one orders us here!" says
someone.

Horns honk. He reclines
in luxuriant bathrobe,
watches us on tv.

Bleating goats, we repine,
until we hear footfalls
inside the vestibule.

The doors open,
partly. We glimpse
his perfect face;
the loving smile,
the brilliant teeth.