Upon the Seas of Anarchy, Canto III

Canto II

Canto III

There is a certain circular justice

In building the first charter city on

The continent of Africa. A kiss

Of freedom for the world, a kiss of hope

For all the world that looks in the abyss.

I want to talk about the time I went

To Freedom City, met with Song – the “Pope”

Of liberty, we snidely joked – was sent

As a reporter to expose the truth

Of what was happening, so Hell-bent

To show it was corrupt and exploitative,

To show how it was run by the uncouth

And show that it impoverished the native

And immigrant alike. I went to see

My fantasy and what no contemplative

Person, one who truly understood what

Mankind is like in his complexity

And not as I would improve him – a slut

And saint at once – a fractal golden mean –

Who, praised or curse, can always give a “but . . .”

No, I was sure that I would find corruption –

And that, indeed, is what I found: a scene

Of desolate corruption, interruption

Of wealth and progress Song had made upon

Sanaga’s mouth by Kalabi’s disruption.

But I’m ahead of myself yet again.

I went to Freedom City, met with Song,

And entered his great city with disdain.

I could not see the wealth and freedom there –

No matter what, I would see only pain.

But even I could not deny the sight

I witnessed there. A city growing where

A river delta swamped the land, delight

Of senses, energy, and work displayed

Itself in every nook, both day and night.

I saw musicians playing by the streets,

Each one well-dressed, each sounding like they played

The Met each night; the poets rapped their beats

In coffee houses; on each wall there hung

The city’s artists’ works in well-sketched sheets

And brightly painted canvasses. The smell

Of food filled up the city, and my tongue

Had never tasted food and drink so well-

Prepared, no matter where I went, so fresh

And clean. And yet, so certain this was Hell,

I could not see or taste or smell what all

Emerged before me naturally. I’d thresh

The city that I saw to give it, wall

And street alike, back to the people who

I knew this Song had stole it from, install

A government who always would provide

Each citizen the smallest thing and do

All things for everyone. I would divide

The classes, rob the rich to give the poor

What I thought they deserved and chide

Them if they dared complain. Unhappy, smug,

I thought that my unhappiness was more

From all the suffering I saw – the drug

I fed myself – but generosity

Is never true from those who, like a thug,

Would take from others. No, true happiness

Can only come when you give honestly

From what you own – that’s how you get the bless

Of happiness. You give what others earned

And you will simply live a life of stress.

It took me many years to learn this truth,

A truth, despite the evidence, I spurned

In articles and in the voting booth,

Until I looked upon the devastation

Of Freedom City that was so uncouth

As to dare challenge my ideals. But when

I went to see the city, revelation

Was still a long way off. I saw a den

Of thieves at work, and searched until I found

Corruption there, as though a place where men

Existed would not have its stench. But Song

Would have to learn a city needed ground

Of solid stone, that bribes were sand, were wrong

Not just as abstract morals, but because

The bonds they built were simply not that strong.

Perhaps I helped to bring the city’s fall –

Perhaps that’s what a good reporter does,

Exposing wrong – perhaps I pushed the ball –

Perhaps it would have happened anyway –

But when my article collapsed the wall

Of secrecy in Cameroon, a cry

Went out against the city on that day.

The government reacted – they’d deny

Corruption, but General Kalabi

Was sent in right away, and therefore by

The end of that same week, the General

Was occupying Freedom City. He

Had somehow failed to capture Song, but full

Of victory at taking unarmed men,

He declared victory and killed a bull

Right there within the city square, a kind

Of sacrifice, to cleanse the city. Then

He said all Cameroonians would find

The city theirs, but all the rest must leave

Within the week, or he would make them blind.

I think it now barbarity, but then

I thought it right. Back then, I would believe

The lies of all dictators, big strongmen

I now see raped and pillaged those they ruled,

And did it with the mere stroke of a pen.

Canto IV

Once More!

I could not ever say I hate my life

For if I were to say I hate today

I’d thus reject my children and my wife –

And I could never have a day so gray.

I must affirm the pain, the things I hate

To do, my money worries, tiny stresses

That always needle, grind, annoy and grate –

For smiles and Matchbox cars, chanklas and dresses.

I won’t resent the things I have to do,

Because I would resent the people I

Most love. I will not live so that I rue

My days – my loves I will not, can’t deny.

My “yes!” to life is also yes to pain –

And every sorrow is to my life, gain.

Below Minimum

His stomach rumbled, but he had to go

To his next stop – it was a little shop

That sold mere flowers, nick-knacks. In the flow

From shop to shop, he wished that he could drop

The wages he could offer – he was sure

He could have had a job by now, the knife

Of hunger would be gone. He would endure

A little less to feed his kids and wife.

He knew he was not worth the pay each place

Could offer him – he had dropped out of school,

He had no skills, and no one would embrace

Him so that he could learn some. Thus, the cruel

Law followed him and kept him unemployed

And ignorant and unemployable –

A cruelty that did more than just annoyed,

Conspiring to keep his skills and talents dull.

He never would be able to compete

With anyone within the working class –

A cruelty by design, so they’d defeat

Him long before he’d see within the glass

A man who could take care of his own kids

And wife with honest labor, so he turned

Within the week to crime – and soon he rids

A person of their life because we spurned

Him with a set of legislation which

Destroyed his dignity. He went to jail –

We threw him, broken, down into a ditch

Because of our unholy, sacred grail.

Upon the Sea of Anarchy: Canto II

Canto I

Canto II

And now I have to sing the song of Song,

Of Michael Song whose vision was to show

The world the way the poor could become strong

By building for a poor country a brand

New city that would show where we went wrong

In economic governance. And yet,

That city fell, because it was a grand

Success. And now we all have made a bet

On open seas, Jeff Freeman’s city on

The sea, so large that we could land your jet.

You do not know of Jeff Freeman? The son

Of David, son of Milton, each son gone

More radical? But what great Milton’s done –

An economics Nobel Prize – cast quite

A shadow. Jeff, though, he is a new sun.

The grandfather, he tried to work within

The governments he had. He lost that fight

With his success with a dictator. Sin

Soon shadowed economic freedom. Father

Learned, turned to anarchy. But Jeff would win

The hearts of women, men like me who saw

The failures freedom’s faced – you’d ask, “Why bother?”

It’s failed so often – yet so love the law

Of nature to evolve more liberty

That this great city was a natural draw.

And that is what drew many to the plan

Of Michael Song, which seemed for them to be

A sensible approach, since it began

With countries which were poor, make a Hong Kong

That’s open, growing, free, and African.

While Nicaragua was his Lilith, Mike

Was given Eve with Cameroon. A long,

Long legal process in each case – a strike

At first with Nicaragua’s supreme court,

Success in Cameroon with a small hike

Up to the court behind the scenes. That’s how

It worked in Cameroon back then. Abort

Another city? Or do you just bow

To their political reality?
Mike wanted bacon, so he fed the sow.

When I first learned of this, I must admit

That I was thrilled that a proclivity

For dark corruption – yes, it seemed to fit! –

Was underlying this market attempt.

And with my piece the darkness would be lit!

If Michael Song was blind, then moreso I.

If you must bribe, then you can’t trust. Contempt

Is sown among those you must bribe. The lie

Cannot support the truth. And so, although

The city did succeed – one can’t deny

It did succeed – it was not long before

It fell. The government saw Freedom grow

(For Freedom City was its name) to four

Times Cameroon’s own GDP, and sent

An army in because they wanted more.

The city that I saw was prosperous

And cosmopolitan – but when I went

To see the aftermath, I saw a puss-

Filled sore upon the face of Africa,

Such poverty I could not find a bus

To take me from the airport. A tuk-tuk

Was all that I could find. Per capita

Had certainly collapsed. The so-called luck

I claimed the city had was gone – and gone,

Too, was my blindness with which I’d been struck.

Canto III

Expertise

With my degree in beauty, can’t you see

That when I say you’re beautiful, it’s true –

I’ve analyzed all beauty thoroughly,

But what I’d reproduce the most is you.

I’ve looked upon the Greek Acropolis –

I’ve looked upon Yosemite’s grand space –

But it is you who brought my soul the bliss

That makes me want to stay in but one place.

And when the joy of beauty fills me up

From seeing you with but the slightest glance,

I want to pour the dark wine from my cup

And lift my voice in song, my legs in dance.

You are my butterfly, my beautiful

Uplifting art – I feel your loving pull.