Tuesday, September 13, 2011

in progress 

BLACK CLOUD, WHITE ASH
1


Minoru Yamasaki            made the windows
narrow, he                              was afraid
of heights. He                   used spandrel
beams to create                a dense 
structural                           wall along
the exterior's                     framed tubes
employing                         slurry walls
for the found-                   ation,
 Vierendeel 
trusses                              incorporating
sky lobbies                        hollow canti-
lever                                  perpendicular
to the ground                        to resist 
lateral                                loads in the 
"Urban                               Renewal”
     project                               Rockefeller
     spear-                                headed.  
The Twin                              Towers
expressed                          the artist’s desire
to reflect                           Gothic
Modernism                       Le Corbusier’s
"Giantism"                                 via silver 
   spires                                 skyline “jewels.”
they called                              them. We didn’t 
        know
                             what to make
of them when                    first they went up
aspiring                             tungsten luminosity
blue sky-                                 scrapers
to the heavens                   clean
against the                         clear and 
    variable                                  moving
light                                  blade-sharp
   of a sky-sucking             dreamy
          cosmopolitan                vista grew on                     
us
 which flame                undid, 
consumed,                             converted
     to rubble                            in light 
as ash rained  
                                   down  
                                         ascending

as matter was                     neither 
    created                                 nor detroyed
at Ground Zero's                
                                                  bloody show 
                  blackness on the rise 
                                                 in light of 
                        ignite/buckle/ fold
         slide away, 

the so-called “lucky” 
escaping                     down
        lightless
            halls and stairwells roaring and with blood 

as God stood by
                    with secret reasons.



                             
2
                                      
Some chose hopeless 
hope, praying before 
they stepped out 
onto Yamasaki's open 
window ledges — 

All over the world 
people pray every day 
not to die by 
the fire of war 
yet each day many do. 

As they detonate, they praise 
the Creator, never doubting 
God is on their side.

All over the world 
people die of war 
but not here, I think, 
but not here 
in America the very 
beautiful, not here, as elsewhere
not here under this sky
 
no pillars of smoke
in this new world 
in this 

materializes as it blooms.



3

I watched from my corner, Union Street 
a procession of women and men 
in professional professional attire
dusted with ash, soap-white beneath 
low, deep grey cloud

over the Brooklyn Bridge and along the main 
drag they process, salt-white declining 
to look back, having outrun the first 
of the fires and funneling 

smoke and failing debris of war—


familiar 
image of
mushroom 
  doom 
   blossom 

A parade files along, vanquished 
somehow hoplites crossing water

But not here, not in my city, 
Not here, not there on the island of 
my birth might ever those monuments created 
be destroyed  

Not on my home-field, 
not in my turf, 
not on my soil, 
not on my asphalt and tar,

Not here, as I write this, I thought.
Not here. No body bags, here, no lines forming 
on the riverbank, not here
no empty emergency rooms here,
no undug accidental graves, not here
no makeshift morgues,
no rows of DOA’s, 
no tagged toes,
no John Does. here,
no flung extremities,
no faceless noses,
no osteo fragments,
no scattered viscera, 
no mashed chambers and ventricles, 
no petrified anima,
no frozen eyes,
no flying shards, 
no choking 
air, no office 
memoranda, no index 
cards, no final 
farewells, this is it, I love you,
tell the kids—
no stairwell 
expirations, 
no death masks,
no snapshots aloft,
no fenestral cannonball 
deaths in the greatest city in the — 
no such plunges, 
no molten steel,
no bowel-born screams,
no wedding bands 
on severed hands
glinting in soot 
or pulverized cement. 

Not war, not here 
in my back yard.

No behemoth in my Apple,
no Leviathan pyre, 
no darkenws daylight here,
no urgent alerts, 
no debris maestrom, 
no “personal effects” 
fluttering from cubicle 
stations in alarm whirl,
no black cloud here, 
no white ash–
no sirens. 


4

They expected sound but
outside the hospital was 
silent, and the ready 
gurneys were light. 
Physicians idled at St. VIncent's 
but at "Ground Zero"  
priests were rounding 
blessing buckets of body parts. 

Exemplar bomberos appeared
raced in, unleashed fountains and streams,  
fanned blue flames of 
courage, the blue before tungsten,
under which the scrapers fell, folded 
in living color, in slow motion, live, in 
"real time," "on air"—

then, nothing

as cameras rolled. 
amid veil and pall 

into kingdom 
finally             come 
home 
to roost.

Not here, no war here 
in the great metro-
polis I love 
               Not here
                           on the                               island
                                        of                my
                                                birth

not here                     where
      my                   rivers
         and               ocean
             meet      in a
                      V
not war here 
broken 
at the confluence
of my broken waters 
not in the mouth 
where I crowned 
where I gave 
birth

5

Most masked, the living crossed over
bridges        
                from the island of Manhattan              to safety 

to the relative safety counties of 

                            Kings and Queens promise.  


Two of my children and I watched the dead-eyed procession along 7th Avenue 
two miles from Ground Zero. White ash and 

Black cloud clung cutaneous, to skin, leveling, bestowing 
dove-grey oneness.

On the Manhattan side, war’s ash coated windpipes. Even as those who made it 
out moved like ghosts. 

                    War's ash blocked airways 
                    in stairways and throats 
                                                                        occluded voice.
                                                                         
 
                                
The “lucky”
made it 
                    out, 
                               poured forth
                                                            into the din,
                                                                                           dropping
                                           
                                                shoes, bags and water
                                                bottles as all hell broke 

                                                naive hearts
                                                                and 
          
                                                                    loose
       and caved 
                             in
            on itself                           
                    

                                               as Minoru Yamasaki’s
                                                         wonder is 
                                                                                underwent a conversion by force 
                     
                              angel 
                             abattoir 
 
Blood rushed forth. Altitude filled with shadow. God stood by. 

God as cornerman.  

                              Home-field diety
                                                                   Sacrifice 
                                                                   Fly

6


I waited outside our home near the corner 
of Union and 7th  1.5 miles from where

winged murderers, martyrs who began the day with prayer, 
who prayed their instruments might hold, who asked God 
to blessed their fire 
of purification
to consecrate their mission 
to slam air-
craft into Yamaski’s framed tubes. 



7

Who am I to call out, Oh God, 
not here, not here  iAmerica 
the so-called beautiful!

Who am I with my charmed life, 
to cry, not here                                                             on the island 
               of my birth,                                                not 
                             here                                           where 
                                 my rivers                and ocean 
                                            meet         in a 
                                                        V
not here at 
the mouth
where I was born
(natus/NATO) where I gave
birth
not here
                                    in the nation
            where --
            not my 
                                waters

                                     
Not here, not where I live,  where just 20 minutes before the first air-
craft hit, my-first born stood holding the hand of his father, underground 
waiting for a connecting train just below Yamasaki's structure...



8

I watched the sky fill
from Union.

I prayed aloud on my corner 
in frozen time, as people pray 
                                                    every day in all corners 
                                                    of the globe
to that same God
the pilots invoked

as they carried out 
the plan to slam their streamlined 
silverine weaponry into Yamasaki's clean design
  
                                        to that same God 
                                        the firefighters who carried out 
                                        the body of that brave priest 
                
                                                                                            to that same God 
                                                                                            I begged for n hour that morning 
                                                                                            to send me the voice of my boy             

                                                                                                             
The pilots prayed
to the one cornerman, God 
on their side, God summoned 
to their cockpit. 

                                                    Who am I to demand, 
                                                    "get over here" to my corner
                                                    of Union and 7th,
                                                    where my Ave Marias 
                                                    were punctuated by the clink
                                                    of quarters going in?
                                                    One hand on the stroller,
                                                    the other in the hand of Maria. 
                                                    
                                                  
Me with my perfect and imperfect loves and charmed existence, 
having the temerity 
to think "not here, not here 
on this holy ground 
where I pray 
to the same God 
that ordered the hit, 
not here Miriam. 
O please, Allah. Please, 
restore to me, 
my son and his father. 

So-called "Father"
who takes neither prisoners nor sides,
who takes life and grants it, 

So-called God 
the morning’s 
assassins aimed to please, 

                    God of Sacrifice, 
                                                        God of  Fly  

Here, so near to where claw-back archangelare recalled to God’s midst

So near to where rescuers breathe into nostrils,
animate like God into dust,

Here among Pietà bodies
 


9
 

I beheld how God’s name swirls cool and sweet even in the stench of smoke

I beheld God’s outstretched, power-jacked arms

I beheld God’s triumphal trumpeting emissaries 

We beheld God ascending into hell  
                              
                                 bringing life out
                                     of dust

We beheld the miracle of aviation

We beheld the shrinking of God in the lethal mix of poverty, ignorance and ire 

We beheld bodies executed in God's name  


I beheld hell fire raised in God's name
 
We behold hell fire raised in God's name 


We can only watch and weep
                                                       in the name 

                                                       of God who is said 

                                                       to have made women and 
men 

                                                       that he might soothe

                                                       his own loneliness



10

                                    And what of these children of mine?
    
                                    These children I made
                                    for my own joy and pleasure and surplus of love?
                                   
                                    What world have I given them?
                                    What have I done?                              



 11                            
            When I arrived in the school office at 10 a.m.
, I found a bleary 
            staff member pulling blue cards. : "Kids whose parents 
            work downtown" she said. I knew there had to be a hundred or more. 
            

            With her toddler sister on my hip, I pulled Maria out of first grade 
            minutes after after the second aircraft struck. I broke 
            as gently as I could the news to the girl teacher:

            “There's been some kind of an attack.”

  

          The hip toddler was born at Saint Vincent's
            where the trauma team idled. 
        
            I sent Maria to school with a loose front tooth.
            I wanted to be with her when the blood began. 
            
            That smile                             I knew
            would never be                     the 
     same again, 
            its brazen gleam                   broken by a gape 
            that row of stars                   her broad mouth 
            boasts. No god will bring it back.
 Might 
            something else, something stronger may 
            
            sprout
 in its place and time
            carry on its slow back what 
            some call
 wisdom, which
            suffering is often said to grant?  



            “Don't allow emotion
 to run wild,"
             said the mayor. "New York is still here.”
             But we knew he knew 
             nothing. 

New York was still 
here, but black 
cloud governed,
acrid breeze called 
the dirge. Flame rained, reined —

Toxic motes of once lustrous 
meat distilled to ash,
matter created and somehow destroyed, 
the white ash and burnt bone,
the human 
remains
of the day
remained
in the pit. 

Yet souls rose
as spirits fell
and bodies tumbled 
from that tower

and calls for blood, calm, prayer
went out and many tongues spoke 
in the wake of and ears adhered
as the pain came in waves
of energy and light and sound 
at "Ground Zero" 


Even as cameras rolled 
cadaver dogs nosed, 
charred corpses piled up
in a makeshift morgue,
Commander-in-Chief 
Chicken Little up from 
the Bush League 
called down to us 
from his clandestine 
shifting airborne location 
in the natural clouds
and announced that 
for those who had been 
incinerated, for those 
who had perished in flight 
for those who had leapt through
Yamaski panes choosing death 
by plummeting through 
American airspace
over immolation, for 
those who had made death 
their own, and for those
who loved them, 
there would be 
justice. The sky was not, 
in other words, falling. 


But what of peace? 

There will be justice
for those who robbed 
the skyline of its “jewels,” 
justice for those whose bodies 
were converted into shadow soot— 



12


But what about peace? 
I refuse

What about I 
refuse to go down 
refuse to drown out
on the island.

Refuse to go down
where the rivers meet. 
   
Blessed be Gotham 
buoyant
 island
of our birth—

13

I prayed the rosary in an empty church.
Prayer to the Mother -- (Mare)
I begin with the Glory
 
                                                Be
            As it was in the beginning

            and is and ever shall be
 
                 world without end--

                        Some say God made man to ease "his" loneliness.

      Him? God on whose side?                     
 
                                        
                                                                             These children of mine                     
                                             These children I made
                        for my own joy and pleasure
                                                                                      we will float
                            we will swim                                    forth
        
    
                            I was                              born
            sur-                 rounded
                                             by
                        God
                                                on all sides

                                    surrounded on all sides by water                                    

                                                                                    
                                                            I am
                                                                        not alone
                                                             
                       Borne by these waters
                                                                    I was born 

                                                on                                              an island, I

                                                                                        say God 
                          gave                    birth 
                                        to                            me    


                                        on 
                                                                    this great
                                    island of our birth.               this shimmering metropolis 
                                                                this orb
                                                                         governed by men, 

and this thing— war— 
                                                     fashioned by men
 
                                                       and strapped 
                                                             to all of
                                                               "man-
                                   
                                                                 kind"                           

            which men elect
                                                     
            to detonate and                                     unleash.                                              


14

What world have I given my terrific loves?
            
                                                                           World of Afghanistan, impoverished by vultures?

                                                                                    World of Iraq we savage?                                                                                                                           
                                               World of Pakistan’s arsenal?
                  


                                                           World of United States erstwhile patron to Bin Laden?

               
 World of U.S. that countenances enslavement of females? 
                                                                                                         World of Saudi U.S. puppet master?                                                                             
World of both sides of our mouths?
                                            
America, land of greed
                                 home of the knave?     
    America, oil whore.
                            
                                  Manahatta where the banks are beautiful
 
                                                        and schools look like jails?

      World of God Television?


                                           What world of shame is it that courses          
                                                through my female flesh!                             

                                    World of never too rich too shallow too famous. 
                                                                          
                                                World of war
 enemy of
                                                                                                          of life
                                                to which pro-
                                                creation,
holy crap
shoot 
                                       heat of  fire
                 of love
                                                called me,                      subjected me,
                            

prompted 
                                me                       to usher through                 woman's 
                                                                                                                            flesh 
                                    for my joy
                                                                                into this place
                                                where I was
                                               
                                                 born  

                                                on this great island
                                                where the rivers
                                                join the sea -- 
 
What poisoned "Apple" 
                                                did I offer them
                                                                                         for a home?
                       
What world will I leave 
                                                     my
                                                            terrific loves,
                                               
                                                                             O, hearts of fire born
                        
                        surrounded
                                                            by water
                                                                              O, Manhattan Island,
                                                            in America the exquisitely beautiful.
                                                            where, today, 

American's homing vultures have come
                                                  to roost ?

What can I give you
                                                            seeing
                                                                                   as how I
                                                             brought you here?


Hope?                                  For this whom shall I blame?                           

I blame Hope,            
that stubborn wax-winged thug.
                         Hope, mocked, thick-headed, slow 
                                                                                                    on the uptake.

                                            Hope in the shape of local heros,           
Hope, who flies into glass.

            
Hope, who makes a meal of the burnt bones of love.



Hope, who gives love a shot when all else fails.

      
                                                                
Hope, reckless aviator, who rises above.

                       

What I can give you,
                                    O, trinity born
                                    on this island
                                                                    of our birth?


                                    Hope, I can give you my faith,
                                                                                                faith in Hope,
rogue flyer 
                                                  who rises above.



                                  Hope, the fire-eater.






9/11/01 written on 9/11/01, Brooklyn, NY; last revised  9/10/22 (In Progress)  

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