Sounds Totalitarian to Me

by on November 22, 2012 :: 0 comments

On Thanksgiving, a family of four opened their doors,
toilet seats, and oven for another four-member family.
The visitors normally hid from society; the only time they
left their property was for a John Birch Society meeting.
An enticing Thanksgiving invite sent them to a dangerous world.

Two visiting children stared at the Thanksgiving spread like voyagers
horrified at an endless ocean ahead. Their father was honored
to say grace. He gave thanks for hospitality, Plymouth Rock, the food
and asked for the doom of the looming New World Order soon.

He sent God requests to save his hosts from the world police,
and to stay successful no matter what the global banks planned.
His sons nodded, his wife’s mouth muttered an affirmed amen.
The sons of hosts lost curiosity when sweet potatoes passed.

During dessert, the line between insanity and stability widened.
The table dynamics would never overlap in a Venn Diagram.
Damning demographics, the hosts sent their children away to
Thanksgiving television, along with the two young guests.
“Please,” the visiting mother petitioned, “no parades today.”

Twelve-year-old temptation didn’t need to taste, just a whiff
of what not to do. Visitors lost their reflections in charcoal television.
Before images, they searched the black, seeing faces look back.
The older gawker, jealous of TV, bragged he could carry one of these—
a knife teemed with attachments, sharp solutions for circumstances.

Television played to jealousy. The shine of a knife layered in lint;
the oldest said he hid it under an upturned coffee cup in a cupboard.
There weren’t many places to hide possessions in their immobile RV.
Their world was small so Communists had nowhere to hide.
Except under coffee cups.

Static cling covered the screen. The visiting sons were asked
what they did for fun. They said shoot guns, and at night,
reload rounds by a campfire as their mother hummed hymns.
Their literature was John Birch newsletters—
they quit processes when the parade procession played.

Turkey tryptophan and seasonal carbohydrates
sent each boy to sleep, to dream
of sharp objects hiding like
hymn humming Communist spiders
under coffee cups.

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