A Chapbook by Jake Berry

Acknowledgements: some of these poems appeared previously
 in eratio and The Canary, two very fine publications.

WAR POEMS

Mene Mene Tekle Upharsin*         
with a mondo twist          
death in the barracks          
the sin eater run amok.  
                         
a cellar requiem          
two saints with arm bands.          
born from their stigmata, they          
hammer out          
deluxe packages         
of mercenary gysm                           

come with me          
toward absolute future         
toward daylight          
and an old man         
in a lawn chair          
cleaving his supper                                                       

                       *Daniel 5:25

    3.7.04 
 
   2

turbulence in the masthead
the baptist has been decapitated

on the quarter deck
you could smell the bodies

we had no idea
it would be like this
sand for a month
then rain and cold

I was sent to
search for survivors
my papers were confiscated
even those that were nothing
but blank sheets of paper

the radio blinking out
roaches in the circuitry

last night my buddy says to me
he says, "can you
remember anything before this?

    3.8.04 

    3

thirst. 
the fire of the inevitable.

your hands work the weapon. 
hands that have forgotten 

their own skin. 

its the rhythm 
you follow: 
two steps, a pause, 
two more. 
the adrenaline 
kicks in. 
everything is white, 
its all noise. 
then its over 
                            
and you wait again. 
 
   3.9.04

the place was full of bankers.
Paradise I mean, even angels have their price.
the palaces and stockades were
all hive mind and avarice.

disjunct.
disrupt.
remove.

mother sits leaned against the house
in a ladder back chair
in the afternoon sun
peeling potatoes
softly singing to herself.
that is all I can remember of her now.

disjunct.
disrupt.
remove.

I pledge allegiance to the real,
but all allegiances have been broken.
and the real is a heavier fiction.

disrobe.
remove.

the books are covered with stains
like a sallow mattress
leaned against a tree
and the odor of it.

  3.10.04 
                                                    
      5 

Call it death camp. 
Call it suburbia. 
Call it worship at the killing tree. 
Armies pour from it. 
 
Sackcloth and ashes. 
The torture box. 
The obfuscation of daydream 

meat and paralysis.
The soil is fresh turned but almost dust. 
                                        
and no rain no rain–  
not now forever. 
                                                          
Call it jackhammer 
on the roof of sky 
and number rape among your jewels. 
All day long the day is pitched 
against the refugees.    Call it. 

Gasoline and buoyant eyes. 

        3.12.04


   6

   (for Ivan Argüelles) 
  
uroboros abattoir  
slaughterhouse  
 
serpent in the feedlot  
swimming through the feces  
(up to her udders in it)  
coiled in the killing stall 
  
asks,  
"What's your pleasure?  
antibiotics?  
hormones?  
fat injections? 
amphetamines?" 

Taste is a chemical  
manufactured in an off coast mill.  
The senses are subjects  
of litigation.  
 
There is no center.   
whirling around these fragments,  
these old stories  
the zealots unite   
fistula  

membrane  
drill  
shanty town  
The barber is a secret agent  
with vials of nitro glycerin  
strapped around his waist  
the core oracle  
wound tight.   

   3.14.03 

   7  
 
Wasp in amber.  
Christ's palms in formaldehyde.  
The scribes are weeping  
in the ruins of their broken vocabulary.
   
Comes a witch in Canaan
can speak in pure image.  
The ground crawls with
maggots when she speaks. 
  
Soldiers and
mortar gun trucks  
raid the laboratories  
and take the parameter.  
They are figures  
in a book of prayer 
locked in a virus.

Her left hand clutches
the broach of Minerva–-
The sea swells
and swallows them all
and the prophets with them.

The grain gone sour
in the monastery stores,
even hallucination
take its meat and
breathe into the cameras
and satellites

Heaven is empty now
except these leeches
pocked in gravity's curve

falling toward the Capitol
collecting the populace
like teeth.   

    3.16.04

    8    

(for Chris Mansell)     

Death days are like this.

The sun rises from a brackish well
and the starling's
speckled feathers shimmer.
His black eye twitching
against a human window

Death days are like this.

The grand machine
warped and broken
and spread across a cotton field

and the breaking plow
and the broken wheel
make you
curl inside the hive and tremble

and the two-faced god
Melancholia-Insomnia
swallows whole and bitter
The raging sun
The raging sun
The black mass bleeding mirror

   3.27.04

   9 


"Here, 
stuff this in his mouth." 

The arrogance of sovereignty.

Orifice. 
Synapse.
Dust blindness and lice.
Wires in his teeth
like squirming eels. 

– Some of them joyously
submitted to a night 
in the stocks
and a hot metal stave
inserted in the anus. 

What is pleasing in God's sight?

Flagellation.
The Catherine wheel. 

What is pleasing in the eyes of the Lord?

When I was delirious
you woke me.
When I was buried
in the black & white
you set the printing press

on fire
with seamy images
lit out of nowhere.
Bondage to the ziggurat urge,
I am calloused nerve and
the stark inclination of old suns.

Burn what does not please you Lord.
Burn the eyes
that make you see. 

   4.1.04 All Fool's Day 

   10 

Vertebrate insect mutates toward heaven.

Two scars carry their message from
generation to generation.

Where the women sleep
you can read their histories.

Children of thunder,
children of curses.

They are devout
and see no one
beyond their covered brows
but what the law requires.
Their's is a poison that runs
in the circuits,
fashions the union
of commerce and slaughter.

Aluminum,
pyrite,
an arsenal of plastics:
ring within ring
sheep in the rain:
the price of electricity
devouring its mother.

   4.5.04 



from THE BLOOD PARODOXES

   Blue smoke
and its forest of antennae

   crawling out
    of old YHVH
with attendant lice
and frogs

“It’s a done deal.”
says the hubcap man,
shoving two 69 Ramblers
  into a brown paper bag
“once you leave the yard
you can’t come back.” 

body of a child
   hung with bailing wire
in the tractor shed

   he’s still drunk
      three days after
teeth and fingers
      nicotine yellow

          *

The radio weeps
The captives are freed
   to sand and desolation
and the simian chatter
   of slot machines

   Any hour
the auricle hallows.

   tragedy.
every night 
  is eloquent and cold.

its teeth numb(ing
   beneath
shocks
   of fluid hair.


    long/ago
    wound

  into a kernel
   whose voice declines
in the hole that remains ––. 

     Still.

   Your’s is 

a suicide of great pleasures

   and vistas

        from the bow
          &
   grounded

  before, even
     War.
  Even the war mannequin
streaming 

     out of its
         malleable tube 

     7

The starlings.
    Their hell siren.

              mocking

   dogtoothed atrophe.        whose
                                shadow

flames into alabaster hollow figure.

  They mount
  along the stair railing 
        and weep.

   Their passion is thickly invisible.

  The starlings.
    
     & pillage

                The infinite feast 


Back

A Chapbook by Jake Berry
	Acknowledgements: some of these poems appeared previously in eratio and The Canary, two very fine publications. WAR POEMS 1 Mene Mene Tekle Upharsin* with a mondo twist death in the barracks the sin eater run amok. a cellar requiem two saints with arm bands. born from their stigmata, they hammer out deluxe packages of mercenary gysm come with me toward absolute future toward daylight and an old man in a lawn chair cleaving his supper Daniel 5:25 3.7.04 2 turbulence in the masthead the baptist has been decapitated on the quarter deck you could smell the bodies we had no idea it would be like this sand for a month then rain and cold I was sent to search for survivors my papers were confiscated even those that were nothing but blank sheets of paper the radio blinking out roaches in the circuitry last night my buddy says to me he says, "can you remember anything before this? 3.8.04 3 thirst. the fire of the inevitable. your hands work the weapon. hands that have forgotten their own skin. its the rhythm you follow: two steps, a pause, two more. the adrenaline kicks in. everything is white, its all noise. then its over and you wait again. 3.9.04 4 the place was full of bankers. Paradise I mean, even angels have their price. the palaces and stockades were all hive mind and avarice. disjunct. disrupt. remove. mother sits leaned against the house in a ladder back chair in the afternoon sun peeling potatoes softly singing to herself. that is all I can remember of her now. disjunct. disrupt. remove. I pledge allegiance to the real, but all allegiances have been broken. and the real is a heavier fiction. disrobe. remove. the books are covered with stains like a sallow mattress leaned against a tree and the odor of it. 3.10.04 5 Call it death camp. Call it suburbia. Call it worship at the killing tree. Armies pour from it. Sackcloth and ashes. The torture box. The obfuscation of daydream meat and paralysis. The soil is fresh turned but almost dust. and no rain no rain– not now forever. Call it jackhammer on the roof of sky and number rape among your jewels. All day long the day is pitched against the refugees. Call it. Gasoline and buoyant eyes. 3.12.04 6 (for Ivan Argüelles) uroboros abattoir slaughterhouse serpent in the feedlot swimming through the feces (up to her udders in it) coiled in the killing stall asks, "What's your pleasure? antibiotics? hormones? fat injections? amphetamines?" Taste is a chemical manufactured in an off coast mill. The senses are subjects of litigation. There is no center. whirling around these fragments, these old stories the zealots unite fistula membrane drill shanty town The barber is a secret agent with vials of nitro glycerin strapped around his waist the core oracle wound tight. 3.14.03 7 Wasp in amber. Christ's palms in formaldehyde. The scribes are weeping in the ruins of their broken vocabulary. Comes a witch in Canaan can speak in pure image. The ground crawls with maggots when she speaks. Soldiers and mortar gun trucks raid the laboratories and take the parameter. They are figures in a book of prayer locked in a virus. Her left hand clutches the broach of Minerva–- The sea swells and swallows them all and the prophets with them. The grain gone sour in the monastery stores, even hallucination take its meat and breathe into the cameras and satellites Heaven is empty now except these leeches pocked in gravity's curve falling toward the Capitol collecting the populace like teeth. 3.16.04 8 (for Chris Mansell) Death days are like this. The sun rises from a brackish well and the starling's speckled feathers shimmer. His black eye twitching against a human window Death days are like this. The grand machine warped and broken and spread across a cotton field and the breaking plow and the broken wheel make you curl inside the hive and tremble and the two-faced god Melancholia-Insomnia swallows whole and bitter The raging sun The raging sun The black mass bleeding mirror 3.27.04 9 "Here, stuff this in his mouth." The arrogance of sovereignty. Orifice. Synapse. Dust blindness and lice. Wires in his teeth like squirming eels. – Some of them joyously submitted to a night in the stocks and a hot metal stave inserted in the anus. What is pleasing in God's sight? Flagellation. The Catherine wheel. What is pleasing in the eyes of the Lord? When I was delirious you woke me. When I was buried in the black & white you set the printing press on fire with seamy images lit out of nowhere. Bondage to the ziggurat urge, I am calloused nerve and the stark inclination of old suns. Burn what does not please you Lord. Burn the eyes that make you see. 4.1.04 All Fool's Day 10 Vertebrate insect mutates toward heaven. Two scars carry their message from generation to generation. Where the women sleep you can read their histories. Children of thunder, children of curses. They are devout and see no one beyond their covered brows but what the law requires. Their's is a poison that runs in the circuits, fashions the union of commerce and slaughter. Aluminum, pyrite, an arsenal of plastics: ring within ring sheep in the rain: the price of electricity devouring its mother. 4.5.04 from THE BLOOD PARODOXES* 2 Blue smoke and its forest of antennae crawling out of old YHVH with attendant lice and frogs “It’s a done deal.” says the hubcap man, shoving two 69 Ramblers into a brown paper bag “once you leave the yard you can’t come back.” body of a child hung with bailing wire in the tractor shed he’s still drunk three days after teeth and fingers nicotine yellow * The radio weeps The captives are freed to sand and desolation and the simian chatter of slot machines 5 Any hour the auricle hallows. tragedy. every night is eloquent and cold. its teeth numb(ing beneath shocks of fluid hair. long/ago wound into a kernel whose voice declines in the hole that remains ––. Still. Your’s is a suicide of great pleasures and vistas from the bow & grounded before, even War. Even the war mannequin streaming out of its malleable tube 7 The starlings. Their hell siren. mocking dogtoothed atrophe. whose shadow flames into alabaster hollow figure. They mount along the stair railing and weep. Their passion is thickly invisible. The starlings. & pillage The infinite feast Back