Donald Illich
Age of Silence
Noise from
previous centuries
rattles in the apartment below,
drives
the Age of Silence nuts.
It politely knocks,
apologetically explains
its whispery trees and tea cup
people can’t sleep
when its leaves
fall like bombs on carpets,
its steam hisses high-pitched
from pots.
The Age of Iron
promises to drop its swords.
The Age of Robots writes
a new law into its chips:
7.2.6. Keep it down, please.
The Ages of Guns and Germs
shoot each other into bits,
croak from shared diseases.
Silence is ready to go back
to bed, puts on its cap
and pajamas, adjusts its
sleep shades on its eyes.
Then it hears a loud bang.
It sends a hush down steps,
armed with
quiet explosives,
black gags, mouths full of
peanut butter.
Once it
reaches the landing, though,
it quakes, pins drop,
and the world,
grumpy from
being interrupted
smashing lives,
swallows it whole.
Symptoms
You want
a lollipop
from the doctor,
but he’s
pre-sucked
them all,
hungry
after
operations.
His germs are
O.K.,
he puts
his hands in
your ass,
but all their
flavors have
dissolved:
strawberries
have lost
their berries
up a nose,
rubber hose
coming soon;
pineapples
have turned
into pine,
a fall of
needles
at Christmastime;
root beer
has received
hangovers
under its tree,
dry as
desert earth;
even bubblegum
has stuck
its gooey body
to emergency
room floors.
You can ask
the nurse
for fresh candy,
but she
offers you
a striptease
instead,
zipping down
her skirt,
your pants,
to discover
what makes
you cough
and scream
She licks
your symptoms
gives you
a prognosis:
more time
with her
in bed;
a lover affair
with death,
chomping
your frail stick;
a strong desire
to ask fate
for one more
bite of life
before you go.
The Event
The event is a powerful force
for peace,
filled with the prayers of sick children,
doves ducking bullets from hunters,
wings outfitted on saints at the rally,
graduating from martyrdom and hair shirts.
The organizers hope ice cream and cake
will please the guests:
convince mercenaries
to drop machine guns for frosting,
persuade companies
to make ploughshares instead of
nuclear bombs
replace the reaper’s scythe
with balloons that lift him into piñata
skies,
that explode into manna and life
everlasting,
everyone catches
to fill their open graves.
The Brain
Tired of owning a head, I asked
the laboratory for a hood ornament
to be clamped to my neck instead.
The scientists wondered if I wanted
a brass sculpture of Zeus adorning
my body, or a symbol of hopeless
peace, or a werewolf dodging silver
bullets, its claws tearing a locked door.
I thought about it, then picked
a glowing red brain, water bubbling
around it in a jar; pulsating, angry,
forgetting it even had a body.
The operation took a day and a half.
I said goodbye to the hapless face
I used to look at in the mirror.
My lips formed a blank line parallel
to the soul, my eyes perpendicular,
glaring upward to the heaven
so many people had promised.
This change was wrong.
In the end,
I chased technicians around the room,
knocked over dangerous experiments,
bashed them with test tubes
so glass shards shredded their flesh.
Only acid stopped me.
Boiling chemicals
melted was left of my arms and legs,
leaving only my mind on the floor.
I commanded the scientists to freeze,
but they laughed at my mental
powers.
They suggested a game of chess;
they’d move all the pieces for me.