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BRASS BALLS AND CONSEQUENCES by George Wallace

all american generals do not go to heaven
there is a place reserved for some of them
on a bronze horse in a public square in hell
in a park near a courthouse and furthermore
in a parking lot in a fish market
in a meat locker on a fishing boat
on an airplane in a bar
under duress under the influence
under bedcovers in drag
in a dimestore novel
in a mardi gras
in the middle of sexual intercourse
at a convention of prosthetics manufacturers
during a medical exam
in an air raid drill
during a long distance telephone call
during a call to prayer
during a press conference
on daytime television
taking drugs
in the heart of a jilted lover
in the run-up to an election
in a jukebox
in the shadow of ambition
in the sweated locker room of greed
in the secret gene pool of destruction
in a donut shop
in the aftermath of a car accident
on a bridge
in a pool of blood
in the batcave with noriega
at a crossroads
in a cop car
in a church yard
in a mosque
in a jealous rage
n the ceremonial lust of a rapist
on a police blotter
on the carpet
on a teeter-totter
on a jungle gym
in an oil well
in a playground
in the smashed teeth of children
at the kitchen window
during a run of prosperity
at a secret meeting of war profiteers
during a friendly takeover
in a spotlight in a rice pot
during a hostage crisis
during a stand-up comedy routine
in a filipino whorehouse
in the middle of an argument
during an interrogation
with the lights turned off
with the water dripping
at the top of the body heap
accompanied by an orchestra
on stage at a country & western concert
flanked by a couple of goons
in a hotel suite
in the arms of a fool
naked in front of his father and his mother
drugged on murder and visions of his own private utopia
under a highway bridge
clothed by the mad
avenged by the weak
ripped off in brooklyn
fleeced by the fleecer
tossed out of congress
mugged slugged ruined
in washington in riyadh
in belgium in argentina
in the flesh trade
in a fashion magazine
in a rainstorm
in the scumbucket of human history
wearing cotton underwear and plastic boots
wearing a fur coat on the beach
wearing a leather collar in the columbus day parade
wearing his heart inside out
in the slammer with counterfeiters and politicians
defrocked in a scandal of priests
before prayer before meditation
before revolution before bathing
before god before falling down dead in a voting booth
just after the last silver dollar has rolled away
riding away into the sunset
like the bronze horse
he is always sitting astride
with his proud face on, riding away
like america rides away
and never even once looks back
at the brass balls and consequences
the terrible majesty
of his bloody misdeeds

One Response

  1. Wow!

    George, pretty darned amazing.

    (Ian, how come you only read me poetry on your blog anymore?)

    ;)

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