Words and Deeds

Hamlet deemed himself (and us) an ass of highest caliber,
disjointed, yet stuck, on heaven’s whiffs and hell’s sudden sways
all the days
of our deaths and we shall dwell in the house of Mister
Big forever if words become deeds, meatier than hollow bones
more meaningful than hallowed stones

that don’t get us any damn closer to defining "heroes"—though
morning papers paste bold banners willy-nilly for war-patriot show,
necessary lately
it seems, to trump the coward hand-on-heart so stately
standing to bombs bursting in the night, proof that staying-the-course
isn’t always testament to bravery, sometimes insanity, a marching force

of incessant sickness with all the small lives that daily reveal
the televised lies and red, white, and blue worries
rampant in our teeming breaths.
Let us each stare down the sterile promontory, to heal
what wounds were whelped by administrative furies
and to count no more useless deaths.