The Others

Geneva Conventionalism

When it’s a toss-up between
your minaret and mine;
a cone or a cross
or a moon that hacks into a sky
of unlimited fears,

our unlimited fears:

When it means a plebiscite
turning into a fascist site
‘cause we’re all so twee and conservative
and can’t see past the flashing lights
and even flashier dollars of St. Moritz;

‘cause that kind of foreigner’s okay.
In our minds.
In our constitution:

the kind of guest
who stays for a week, maybe two
at a push, with a wrench at the

who stays for the status,
for the exclusivity of it all,
for a four minute downhill rush,

and speeding about as far
in the opposite direction
of those flaming minarets
as possible. Because

what it boils down to is:
a prayer call cannot drown out
the yodelééeeeeeeeeeeoooooooooooooooooo.

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