On 9/11, I worked for National Development and Research Institutes, Inc. (NDRI), which had its offices in the South Tower.  On my way into work, they were attacked and soon thereafter, collapsed. None of my co-workers were killed since we worked on the 16th floor. Over the next few weeks, it became clear that most of them opposed the actions of the US government in attacking Afghanistan.

The destruction of the WTC was traumatic for all of us even though it was a poor place to work. We always joked about how its poor ventilation caused coughs we called the “WTC Respiratory Disease.”

In the succeeding months, as the US acted more brutally and went insane over “security” (and passed Clinton-drafted laws by now being used to try to repress the Left), many of my co-workers, and I, got involved in antiwar activities.  One way I dealt with the trauma was to write over 100 poems relating to those events over the course of a few years.  Many of these were published in Murders Most Foul, a chapbook of my poetry published by the Central Jersey Coalition against Endless War. A few of these appear below. The first poem, however, has never been published before and reflects my experiences when my train arrived in New York after the WTC was attacked but before it collapsed.

9:40 a.m., before the fall

From the Penn Station madhouse

where telephones flaunted lines

many frenzied panics deep

I dialed the bell

to ring unanswered,

to ring unheard

amidst the smoke,

on the 16^th floor

before the fall

below billowing bellows

of flames a-roar

before the fall

before the fall

the unheard bell

the bell unheard

shortly, shortly,

before the fall

before the fall

the bell

unheard.

*The first draft of this poem was written September 6, 2003.

 

Instant connection

As our offices burned

and our towers collapsed,

TVs roared their anger,

politicians their hate.

 

Our very first actions

upon reaching our homes

were to call one another,

ask if the other was there,

if each had survived,

and to e-mail the world

to say, “We’re alive,”

 

We slowly realized our losses,

the destruction of place,

our books and our spaces

now gaps in our lives,

 

and our new disconnection

from a nation enraged,

from politicians and pundits

who talked only of blood-debt,

who stoked passions for war.

 

But we responded with horror

at their planned bombings and killings,

at spreading destruction

like that we had suffered;

we rejected connection

with those who sought blood,

while seeking connection

with workmates and strangers,

empathetic connection

with those who faced bombs.

 

Rejoicing in living,

while mourning all dead,

we build empathetic connection

against more spilling of blood.

*An earlier version appeared in Connections. 24 (3). 2001. p. 34. The first draft of this poem was written on October 4, 2001.

 

Murders most foul

Let us mourn the dead

of September 11, 2001:

3000 by airplane, many my building-mates

seen, ever seen, on TVs in our land;

8000 AIDS deaths by criminal betrayal of promised aid,

and by the woes

of profit-driven trade;

200 Iraqi kids, by blockade;

 

Let us mourn the dead

of September 11, 2002:

None by terrorist airplane;

9000 by preventable AIDS;

200 Iraqi kids, by blockade;

 

Let us mourn the dead

of the Tuesday before the elections:

9000 by preventable AIDS;

uncountable Iraqis, by American airplanes;

 

the last remnants

of American democracy.

*The first draft of this poem was written on September 8, 2002.

 

 

How many hours?

How many hours

of changing diapers,

giving milk,

singing songs of sleep?

 

How many hours

of teaching the tying of laces,

the measured cadence of speech,

and the brushing of teeth?

 

How many hours

learning letters,

agonizing square roots,

perhaps a little verse?

 

How many hours

to teach this parents’ child

to walk a step in play

and meet a landmine’s curse?

*The first draft of this poem was written June 6, 2004

 

Check out line

Today is grocery day

in Year Nine of the War

As I reach the line’s front,

the checkers take my loyalty card

so I can get low low discounted prices

like the loyal customer I am

and so President Ashcroft can be sure

I am buying Wheaties,

Coca Cola,

“Kill an Infidel” comic books,

the Bible plaque of the day

and loin of terrorist

for my red-blooded American roast.

 

When the scanner beeps,

the voices yell

“Hands on your head, traitor scumbag!

I mean you!

Hands on your head and spread them,

traitor scumbag.”

 

As I was dragged from the Shop and Drop,

asking why? what had I done?

they said my loyalty card

wasn’t doing its duty,

didn’t buy enough gas

for two SUVs,

a snowmobile,

and other necessities

any loyal American

had to have,

and they didn’t listen when I cried,

“But I’m on Social Security!

I can only afford to drive a quarter gallon a week,

that’s twelve dollars right there!”

 

But they didn’t listen,

didn’t care,

those checkers

at the check-out line.

*The first draft of this poem was written January 4, 2004