THAT DAY: A Special Issue of the Journal of Ordinary Thought
JOT Writers respond to the terrorist attacks of September 11th.
Published November 2001.

Our first ever color cover issue features the work of over 40 JOT writers and brilliant cover art by Tony Fitzpatrick, "September Monument," the etching you see on this page. We present two pieces from the issue here. Copies of this special edition are available for $10. Charlie Clements can be heard reading "American Rage" on our new audio CD, "JOT Out Loud." Email us for more information.

HAIKU OF DEVASTATION
by Sharon Warner

1.
Morning terror strikes.
Skyjacked planes blast out the core
Of the Big Apple.

2.
Wounded towers die,
Falling in upon themselves.
Dust, glass, metal, death.

3.
The sky has fallen.
The Pentagon is wounded.
All our country bleeds.

4.
No special effects.
All the blood and dust are real.
Real life and real death.

5.
Are we now at war?
Who, then, is the enemy?
Within or without?

6.
Shock and disbelief,
Tears for countless, nameless dead,
Sorrow beyond words.

American Rage: Poems on War
by Charlie Clements

"War hath no fury like a noncombatant." -- C.E. Montague

1. The Future
Where do I go from here?
Will I pull down the shades,
Retreat from the world as it falls?
Do I go back to the heroin and cocaine?
Even if robins twitter in the trees?
Even if the sun shines on my poems?
Meanwhile I sit by the TV and wait for another newsflash.

2. Parting
I want to say I love you, but war puts a finger to my lips.
A chilling silence ensues between us instead.
It's all over, I would die!
There's no sense in anything now,
Not even the beauty of stars.

3. Orchestral Battle
The United States is kind, generous, thoughtful,
Puts its neighbor's interests before its own;
Wouldn't think of using its friends to further its own financial needs.
So how can people be angry with us?
How can people wish bombs on us?
Meanwhile the U.S. dons the uniform of the eternal warrior.
A chorus of angry trombones sounds the stormy song of war.
A sea of tubas gives up its dead.
A string orchestra wails.
Let there be words forever written in shaving cream
On surreal mirrors of vanity throughout the land
While we dream of how good we look to the world.
Let the words say loud and long: "War is the only safe way to prevent war!"
The let us march and kill with loving resolve.

4. Imagine
Imagine a war in Andrew Wyeth America.
Father knows best walking the streets wearing armor.
Tanks patrolling New York.
People looking grim.
Fearing the final closing of
Commonwealth Edison.
And Nero is that nice carpet
Salesman with the glasses...

5. War Machine
(Recalling the air and water show. Warplanes thunder over Chicago. To former pacifists.)
Isn't it thrilling -- you've come by the thousands to witness our awesome kill -- power! How nice you've brought
Your kiddies!
Did you bring your Kodak for beautiful digital pictures? Breathtaking!
You're here no doubt in the outraged name of Anne Frank who
couldn't sleep to the lullaby of
warplanes overhead! No?
Simply taking your kids to see and hear the real McCoys while lecturing about the evil 'n' necessity of war.
Every so often you set a glowing example of protesting war toys for tots, correct?
As you who were once pacifists now sing the glories of battle, and demand the rights of women and gays to be warriors...where you once demanded an end to war.
Pardon my American rage!
Aren't women and gays made for better pursuits than shooting holes in people's heads?
But war will have its way; people will continue to fight.
Our combat instincts will surely follow us for the rest of our dreams, in
our travels through outer space -- already I hear a snar-drum on
Mars -- don't you? Why not tap it into your child as she sleeps?
Meanwhile armies continue to class by
night, screaming futile equality at the
crimson, angry moon.

6. A Song
I sing the poetry of battle.
Magnifique, the troops, the bombs
with arms and legs blowing everywhere!
Send in the tanks, the ships, the planes.
Give hand grenades to the children.
Bring in the biological weapons.
Push the nuclear buttons.
Let us pray to a loving god
for the strength to kill our neighbors.
Things are poppin' all over the world!
Let us laugh and sing the infectious poetry of war!

7. Alone
The cynical Marxist hibernates in his snoring hotel cave,
Utopian plaster dropping from his ceiling,
Cardboard walls flapping in a draft of
open window;
His socialist genius marinating in
bourgeois brandy.
He eases back on his throne like the
sleepy specter of communism and dreams the
people's past, elitely alone with
his open Marxist sympathies and
top secret normal desires.
At times he drills himself to life in his writing
wooden-like sits at desk in front of qustionable typewriter and
Machine-guns modern society for its own good. Quotes from
Marx: "The value of the labor produce is the most abstract but
also the most highly generalized form taken by that product in
the Bourgeoisie" etc etc. A sudden flame ignites his eyes.
Sees on his wall the shadow of Tolstoy at work.
For an instant is almost a child again.
Glides to bed wearing the moon and stars.
But usually he's barely breathing.
The process of decomposition has
already begun in his lifetime.
He curses a lot -- is bitter
about the age.
Writes the revolution, but
speaks the world will end.
Behaves as if it has.
On his walls some drawings done by a
Friend he no longer sees.
Happy drawings meant to cheer him
out of his sneering cynicism,
remind him of better days,
lofty ideals...

Trying to rekindle in him the hopes of earlier years his artist-friend had asked him a number of questions at their last meeting together,
questions concerning the ethics of a new society.
Heavy questions. Russian questions.
To which the Marxist frowned, having been in a worse-than-usual mood that day wasn't about to answer
questions. Didn't his friend know that we as a species had evolved to where the same answer could be
given to every question?
He told his friend that nuclear extinction
is now the answer to all questions.
The friend was appalled by
such nihilism!
They argued and haven't spoken to each other since.
Their silence itself has a sinister nuclear ring...
the silence after it hits...the sound of
of one hand finally heard.

It is sad.

War is always sad.

To the victims of the atrocities committed on September 11, 2001

© 2001 Neighborhood Writing Alliance
All rights revert to the authors.