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VOICES FROM THE DUST CLOUD (9/11/2001)
by Paul Sohar

Nobody wants to hear any more about it,
    itís as if a passenger jet had flown in one ear
and out the other. Itís all in bad taste.
And nobody wants to talk about itÖ
except that the tongue falls out, dangling like a loose girder
beam knocking against crumbling chunks of wordsÖ
And all this after having been trained to admire
      Daliís melting watches?
So whatís wrong with an aluminum plane
       melting into a glass-and-steel tower?
Into a touristís image of Manhattan? a cheap souvenir?
        And anyway, it was only an illusion,
      special effects, wasnít it?
Those towers werenít real in the first place, they were fake!
        just something to put into French movies
    with a Manhattan locale like the Eiffel Tower is thrown
        into every Hollywood film taking place in Paris.
They were just an emblem, and a cheap one too, so who cares?
       But if you still must get sick over it, call it
                 Godís punishment on a sinful people,
       chickens coming home to roost, and all the rest.
Hang a guilt trip over it and you wonít see it any longer.
        It was the fault of everyone around you, wasnít it?
So why should you care? Because it is September the eleventh,
        two thousand and one?
Performance art thatís proving Manhattan to be unreal,
     a mere fantasy, a capitalist trickÖ
It didnít happen, I donít want to talk about it,
      letís change the subject,
and if it did happen it didnít happen to us,
      it happened to Morgan Stanley and the Lehman Brothers,
not to us. And they had it coming to them, but not us.
        Maybe some of us. But not you and me;
                what did we do wrong? I cannot talk about it.
Pockets of jet fuel are still smoldering in my stomach.
        Maybe it was my fault.
                Maybe it was something I ate last night.  

 



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