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Your echo lingers, calling all who hear to
stand and
fight, saving Orleans from England amid a
century of bloodshed, echoed in every
stomach-growl of
a hungry laborer, each
moan of a lonely leper &
kick of an
unborn child, tho not in the
mocking Brahmsian fallacy who claims to
speak thru
you, holding her feet to an unlit fire, snug in
wool socks atop a subsidized
ottoman, warbling
glory to the misguided
Moores & their eye-for-an-
eye sediment sans
Messianic filter & Heaven-on-
Earth delusion bent on
mundane doctrine &
agreed-upon lies, seeking to steal our generous
civilization as they
hijacked then
crashed our culture,
edutainment, Sensurround, the
quick cutaway melting
away the pages of history like flames
thru a library, in the spirit of their
Lilliputian kindreds, uprooting
pillars burning bridges planting
minarets, minds engulfed in Brobdingnagian
smokescreens
fanned @ the Academy of Lagado
& seen thru the blurry saltless
tears of
afternoon TV. Your echo rings on in the cries of the
-forgotten mother,
-accused father, &
-the censored scapegoat's bleat, the
sob of the self-fulfilling prophet child turned
state property. It's
buried deep in the plea of a tax-free sidewalk
preacher, the sizzle of uncleared
brush in a
wildfire's path, tho not in the bellow of the
tax-backed pavement professor or mendacious
mendicants exploiting the
needy to overfeed the needless, survives down the
lineage of Benedict XV who cleared &
canonized
your name, carried by
the acrid smoke that set your soul home free,
an aroma which endures the lies that mark each century.
Cretan Maineiac
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