Whose Fault?

This is your fucking fault.
You have designed this intensive progress.
This is your progressive swell of emotionless dank.
This is your unquenchable thirst for prospect.
It is you who that is in denial of its immensity.
It is you that requires a back lash.
It is you who gropingly search for your mother
and never quite able to adjust the manifold object
and never quite able to grasp intuitiveness
and never quite able to stop asking for a destination.

It is you who have dug this shallow well
and have expected it to quench the thirst of many.
It is you who have claimed success while---
no one was looking or cared or at least
pretended to care.
It is you who has never given anyone
a red cent for nothing in return,
your white seafarer cape pretending
to be a white whale, white consciousness, or
white malice.

It is you who fails to understand that there are
severed heads, and heads severing heads.
It is you that sees the evidence as "inconclusive."
These are your fat fucking lies.
This is your stench pit, governing maggots.
This is your immaculate stereotype.
This is your bloody Eucharist.
This is your pain dispenser.
This is your bullshit dream in a ballot.
This is your wool pulled over the wool of battered sheep.

This is, this is contempt.
This is my contempt---
contempt for the fact of irreversibility,
contempt for suffering in a cage,
contempt for hatred you can't put a fist in
without getting a larger fist back, and
contempt in contempt of mangling the order.
What Order?
What sympathy?
What compassion?
What true moral?
What family nucleus?
what historic legacy?
What the fuck?
What have you implied all along?
Golden gates? Garden doors?
Crucifixion?

What have you done to my magnanimity?
My justice?
What have you been doing all this time
while we were sleeping but pretending
not to sleep?
Are you mad?
Are you serious?
What?
No redeeming response?
No accountability?
No sympathy for our brokeness?
Or our bare backs in a wasteland,
our confusion with poetry, or
our futility for that dead remembrance
in that stained black soil stained red
so long ago, and now you are staining
something red somewhere else?

This guilt that lies in the body
for the atrocities of the mind,
the fruitlessness of blood,
this forgiveness of sins,
whose sins? Our sins!
Whose faults? Our faults!
Whose blemished war torn streets in Baghdad?
They are ours. To ponder, to contend with,
to tear our eyes out for and suffer on to
them in order to speak of healing humanity
without a satellite dish, without judgement,
without google, but with peace;
acknowledging love without confering
with a cynic, or a student, or an expert,
or a priest. Just quit "doing it" for Nike
and say "YES, THIS IS MY FUCKING FAULT!"
This is my broken heart.
This is my bullet strewn wall.
This is how we can mend without
making a buck. This is how, time for plan B.