The Wonder of 5G

Which colour

will we say they were

once their skin & flesh are

gone? The pigment

of each iris

when their sockets—

cavities? Gouged

by shell & drone,

vacant to the bone,

as the clinic strewn

like a red/dead

Martian landscape?

The one that’s

juxtaposed—

with Jabalia

on my phone,

in which clouds

now speak of storage

not of sky.

An ICE that

melts humanity

to a puddle. Of salt

like the Aral Sea.

Saline saves

or kills. Sometimes

both & neither.

al-Assad

was once a dentist. Knew

each nerve of pain. Putin

well-acquainted

with aikido,

beyond its self-

defense.

And the never again 

of Bibi? Scores 11

for irony. Surely

a rule for thee

but not for me.

We scorn Drumpf   

for being orange.

An affront to

hesperidiums

in the grove. Not there in

Florida, near Alligator

Alcatraz,

but the ones

in what was Jaffa—

that when peeled

are sweet & luscious,

haven’t ceased

to be a citrus; their memory

that’s been sticking

to your fingers,

your tongue,

or that which were

your members

until a missile

came & severed,

like a machete

to a Tutsi,

carried down a

river

like a clearcut

in ’94, when prophecy

had insisted

the World Wide Web

that’s coming  

will be glorious to

behold, blaze from

hand-to-hand

as if it’s flame

and we its torch.

Andreas Gripp

July 25, 2025

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