by
Stew Albert
Comrade Pablo/
It's hard to write poems when the metaphors
are poisoned by dying planets of garbage/
and nations trade families
for shopping malls.
Pablo/
You summoned your magic
when hope and glory raised its red flag
and romance was unsullied by insight/
ah senor/
the air was cleaner/
a magician could fill her lungs with beauty.
Comrade/
We always knew the sad bayonet of defeat/
but somewhere
over despair
and nights so dense with darkness/
goodness was in triumph
drinking its innocent pleasures
of love without regret
and commanding us
"paint wonderful victories
with your gigantic soul."
Senor/
Now your red flag flies proudly
in suburban theme parks
and wax museums
of understated horror/
and the soul's passion is stilled
by the body electric
telling tales
of parental abuse.
Ah Neruda/
Where are my poems
visions, dreams, pleasures,
the dragons of desire/
Are they misplaced
in the sweltering street/
crowded and crushed
by mangled ghosts
haranguing destiny
with their empty words?
Stew
