Sea wind brings a thousand sorrows trapped

http://www.box.com/s/rhb5107t4b7k9shitfaf

(Photo: The Phnom Penh Post)

Sea wind brings a thousand sorrows trapped

Digging into mended frame.
Deaf and dumb, I cannot pretend longer--there’s rage still
Waiting to strangle that daft white dove, insisting on
Bringing another twig to the vultures. It’s much too late still. Do you hear
White feathered thing with your slow-preening table talks about the burden of
Bearing a green twig during long flight into vulture lands.
At least you can fly. Imagine us land-bound creatures with various species of
Hunger circling our children

Day and night. One supposed that one or two
Feeding frenzies were enough to curb the hunger off the vulnerable others, but
It’s never enough for these greedy birds of prey. It’s not too long ago
To easily forget how wild the slaughters went for us. Haven’t you seen and heard
While you are out cavorting? Watch your back:
Vultures prey on defenseless meats--hard to imagine the rot not
Reeking next to God’s other birds. It means little to say now: these are no paradise with Exquisite head dresses initiating small talks among the hand-fashioned-laurel-crowd.
Then again, we all know about those twigs for a long while now, how delicate they are and
Insubstantial: twigs cannot feed hunger, especially the flesh-eating kind.

If the drift hasn’t yet gotten to you, then, here is the story:
Land grabs among government cronies.
Just as we thought they’re safe and secured
Each day to be more theirs, after a five-year stay to raise their young
Families on this marred land, bearing on a gentlemen’s word. Then too, a few words solidified
Give and yours
Instead of thumbprints and fancy signatures because back
Then, you see, words still returned whatever borrowed
Rice, gold, shovel, and a shoulder-
Stick to balance the water buckets from the pond.
Now monster machines are humming at ear-
Deafened idle at the door. The sound. The earth tremors
At the helm of greedy progress, bidding off by bastard-regime proxies
Is loosening twigs from their thirty-year twines

Under each makeshift tarp. Just as dawn turns pink, hemming the dark sky, big
Company men muscle idled hurting-all-metal
Loader-excavators into drive. What a scene: how swift is the mechanism of ruin
When unopposed. Imagine if you can, constricted
Under each gypsy top, our, yes, our sick and elderly and little ones
Are still asleep with sun slits widening on their faces.
Poor-poor children, sun-stirred and sun-blinded, a thunderous invasion
Is no way for anybody to be awakened so early. What have they done, but

To be told, when they do reach that age, before normal children, of course, of how they, too, Like their parents and grandparents were driven again by the same vulture-
Mass; scared. Intimidating
Total control.

Totalitarian: government cops, riot
Prepared with extra change already bought out each life, stand
Erected like wood sentinels waiting the go-dog
Go. Attack till the last whistles

Stop. Isn’t the object of hurt is to often hear response? Inform us if you would
What is the purpose in blood
Darkening the pavement up to your marble door steps?
Do you want this for your fancy dinner guests? Imagine the lady’s trains smearing

On the way to the cocktail counter. Please do tell
How you answer with your foolish
Children
Stooping down to another blood mark.

By peauladd huy
12/14/2011