When a beaten bellicose addled drunk
Through puffed lips cries “Can’t we just get along?”
You wonder: is this pious scofflaw punk
On to something? Could be. But not for long.
Nature is quite plain. History, replete
With evidence, displays our frenetic
Inebriating joyous gush when we
Defeat the enemy. It’s genetic!
Thus nature, after all, shapes nurture—rids
Us of that age-old quarrel. Ancient screeds—
The books we quote to purify our kids—
Teach them to kill. Hordes of malicious gods,
Modeling us, prance, posture, and destroy.
“I’ll get me glory on the Egyptians,”
Old Yawah growls, then plagues them (boy oh boy!)
And revels as he kills their first-born sons.
And when war-weary Arjuna decides
Killing kinsman is monstrous, sick revenge,
Lord Krishna manifests himself, derides—
(Blazing with light, arms, thighs, but mostly fangs)
Explains that killing is what we do! Don’t
Even get me started on Zeus and Thor,
Shiva and Kali. They’re mirrors; we taught
Them all their tricks; we made them what they are.
Freud was right! Never mind the rolling eyes
Of patronizing practitioners. Freud’s
Still right! That raffish band of deities
That occupy the skies—jackals devoid
Of all constraint—implacably enraged—
Reflect the savagery we hurl at those
Who dare deny us our desires! Those sage
Christians who preach a new idea—“repose
In the bosom of Jesus: god of love,
Not rage”—are something of a laughing stock.
Those same Christians, urged, no doubt, from above,
Went to slaughter Saracens. Huguenots
Got themselves massacred by Catholics.
But never mind—the Protestants repaid
That debt with ample interest. Frolic
With the armies of Christ— they’re still arrayed!
“Loving god” my ass! And yet it’s foolish
To blame these gods. We made them avatars
Of our belligerence. It takes no stretch
To see ourselves in those unholy stars.
(May 4, 2007)