by
      David
      Weldon
     
    
   
   
    
     
      north
      america
     
     
      indian
      song
     
    
   
   
    
     
      why
      are
      you
      sad
     
     
      and
      why
      are
      you
      crying
     
    
   
   
    
     
      dead
      land
      is
      all
      around
      you
     
    
   
   
    
     
      standing
      on
      a
      hill
     
    
   
   
    
     
      (a
      faceless
      mound
      of
      the
      dirt
     
    
   
   
    
     
      of
      very
      old
      bones)
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Lover’s
      Train
     
    
   
   
    
     
      the
      last
      train
     
    

    
     
      left
      hours
      ago
     
    

    
     
      the
      last
      love
     
    

    
     
      was
      on
      it
     
    

    
     
      disappeared
     
    

    
     
      into
      the
      long
      hard
      day
     
     
      the
      lost
      sun
     
    

    
     
      gone
      from
      it
     
     
      yesterday
     
    

    
     
      I
      dug
      up
      dead
      trees
     
     
      all
      from
      my
      backyard
     
     
      the
      skeleton
      branches
     
     
      were
      held
      together
     
     
      with
      memories
      forgotten
     
    
   
   
    
     
      television
      people
     
    
   
   
    
     
      t.v.
      men,
      suited
      and
      tied,
      their
     
     
      plastic
      hair
      groomed
      for
      the
     
     
      bright
      lights
      and
      the
      mean
      camera
      eye
     
    
   
   
    
     
      tied:
      I’m
      roped
      and
      battered,
     
     
      beaten
      to
      your
      nonsense
      rhythm,
     
     
      your
      pounding
      smiles
     
    

    
     
      and
      your
      machine
      gun
      tongues
     
    
   
   
    
     
      youths
      all
      television
      headed
     
    

    
     
      an
      empty
      box
      with
      no
      room
      for
      sorrow
     
     
      if
      I
      had
      a
      television
      head
     
    

    
     
      I’d
      be
      down
      on
      my
      knees,
     
    

    
     
      praying
      to
      the
      found
      god:
     
    

    
     
      the
      smooth
      image
     
    

    
     
      that
      I
      saw
      on
      the
      t.v.
     
    

    
     
      the
      stark
      screen
     
    

    
     
      betraying
      what’s
      behind
      it
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
       
     
    
   
   
    
     
      20
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Sean
     
     
      McQuaid
     
    
   
   
    
     
      The
      Impulse
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      feel
      like
      doing
      something
      creative!
     
    

    
     
      Like,
      say,
      holing
      up
      in
      this
      castle
      laborato
     
     
      And
      ordering
      Igor
      to
      fetch
      me
      corpses,
     
     
      And
      sewing
      them
      into
      an
      unholy
      compos
     
     
      human,
     
    
   
   
    
     
      And
      imbuing
      it
      with
      a
      twisted
      semblance
      ofl
     
     
      And
      screaming
      ‘“‘It’s
      alive”’
      as
      the
      light
     
     
      floods
      its
      body...
     
    

    
     
      Or
      perhaps
      I’ll
      write
      a
      poem.
     
    

    
     
      Or
      maybe
      not.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      There
      are
      some
      things
      man
      was
      not
      meat
     
     
      tamper
      with.
     
    
   
   
    
     
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