Laertes is in the Oil
by Joseph Birkett

The hollow toooo of the final steam-whistle
follows the sound of a furnace door
slamming for the last time.

Through the waning crescendo of the whistle,
the future can be heard,
already thundering
internal explosions, like a heart,
and like a heart,
each combustion is a terminal
beat.

There are limits to such things.

And in every fiery beat of that terminal heart,
sounds the swish of dark, oily currents,
and in the swish, hypnotic and pulsing,
the muted music of a distant opera:

vibrato M-16s
long-winded jets
baritone tanks
soprano missiles
nuclear kettledrums

The libretto is from Hamlet,
power's corrupted transferral,
a new king,
death, irreconcilable death.
Confusion rules it.

We watch through, with eyes anew, those sad orbs of Laertes--
his father slain and sister driven mad by the court terrorist,
Hamlet.

The king councils, questions:
"Laertes, was your father dear to you?
Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,
A face without a heart?"

And it's sad enough to break the soul,
poor Laertes, of Hamlet, says,
"To cut his throat i' the church"...

It's act V scene II,
late.
This is our place
in the play
in the opera
in the eddies of oil
in the injected spray
in the contained explosion
of a combustion engine near you.

You can hear through fading whistle:
sweet Ophelia has drowned
and with her, innocence--

While the new king conspires
envenomed blades and
reckless, poisoned pearls,
we stand, as Laertes,
in the confusing hell of waiting to murder.
This is our place.
This is our pause.
This is our cue.
How shall we play it
as the scandal is revealed
over dead bodies
upon the globe's stage,
and the heart fails at the knowledge, that,
"I can no more. The King, the King's to blame."