Search Order
by Raúl Rivero

What are these gentlemen looking for
in my house?

What is this officer doing
reading the sheet of paper
on which I've written
the words "ambition," "lightness," and "brittle"?

What hint of conspiracy
speaks to him from the photo without a dedication
of my father in a guayabera (black tie)
in the fields of the National Capitol?

How does he interpret my certificates of divorce?

Where will his techniques of harassment lead him
when he reads the ten-line poems
and discovers the war wounds
of my great-grandfather?

Eight policemen
are examining the texts and drawings of my daughters,
and are infiltrating themselves into my emotional networks
and want to know where little Andrea sleeps
and what does her asthma have to do
with my carpets.

They want the code of a message from Zucu
in the upper part
of a cryptic text (here a light triumphal smile
of the comrade):
"Castles with music box. I won't let the boy
hang out with the boogeyman. Jennie."

A specialist in aporia came,
a literary critic with the rank of interim corporal
who examined at the point of a gun
the hills of poetry books.

Eight policemen
in my house
with a search order,
a clean operation,
a full victory
for the vanguard of the proletariat
who confiscated my Consul typewriter,
one hundred forty-two blank pages
and a sad and personal heap of papers
—the most perishable of the perishable
from this summer.


Commie Invasion of Wrong Beach
by Bad Commie

What are these gentlemen with guns and dark suits looking for
in my house?

What is this closet hitlersexual doing
reading the sheet of paper
on which I've written
the words "STAB" "ALL" and "COMMIES"?

What hint of conspiracy
speaks to him from the photo without a dedication
of a knife engaged in a stabbing motion and a commie (alive variety)
out behind the McDonalds dumpster?

How does he interpret my coroner's certificate for commies?

Where will his techniques of "argument by theft" lead him
when he reads the smiley faces and "keep out commies" signs
and discovers the indisputable proof
of Stalin being the best commie killer?

Eight virgin unstabbed specimens
are examining the texts and drawings of my secret plans,
and are infiltrating themselves into my emotional networks
and want to know where little Andrea, my favorite knife, sleeps
and what does her damascus patterns have to do
with my artistic stab wounds.

They want to know exactly what I meant
when I wrote
in an incomprehensible political tract (here a wry smirk):
"If it steals like a commie thief,
it gets the knife like a commie thief"

A specialist in stabbings came,
an art critic with the title of chief primary unstabbed target
who examined, at the point of a knife
the pile of dead commie corpses, as he lay gently on top if it.

Eight fresh presents
in my house
with a "find the money" order,
a clean operation,
a full victory
Stalin's 5 year plan fulfilled

They confiscated my money,
one hundred forty-two reasons
and happy and deeply personal heap of papers
- and then they perished like the filthy commies that they were,
this summer.

-posted by Bad Commie @ 6:09 AM