Upon the Occasion of the Abu Wa’el Dhiab Force-Feeding Decision
You are you are ever so
more or less ruthless and sincere.
The detainee of the mind writhes against the tube,
the thin tunnel-cloud of hate, the nasogastric
nightmare of thoughts stuck together like wet pages of a magazine.
The throne king, the wolves, the feeding chair.
Judge Gladys Kessler has lost her hair.
And I have lost my mind
in the sweet metal
meadows of our endless war.
I am a corporate person now.
I want to look in the black center
of it all, to push my fingers into the pain
like J Mascis or Sekhmet until what’s removed
is the feeding tube-like intestine of dark thought in the flickering
flourescent of Camp No, the wheezing of a drowning man
at the oval center of an office where they cannot bring
the body, the detainee’s body, inflated
with such light, such grace, completely free from the poison
of his own mind that sloshes
soundlessly onto the President’s desk.