Poems come
in-between
the living hours
daily
bread
congestions
net-working
futures to headline news
re-runs –
war
democratic gun-talk
breathing
termination.
They come
a seeing
brief
grace to rip the veil –
unreal
as the screen-
playing
op liberation in Iraqi. Tanks
and troops - stars
in Baghdad, city
of thieves
SHOCKing.
At night
death glows
beautiful.
AWEsome
an emerald sky
halos
a thousand innocents
blasted
free
for one sad
damned man.
Still
the Euphrates runs
through Babylon.
Silent
evolution
renames
the beast.
II
I sit watching in a room
made for transit -
idyllic a.c. comfort
and service like the brochure-
holidays from where I came.
In the belly of this war machine
there is a kind of peace,
except on the T.V.
A newscaster’s toasted face
mimics middle-eastern heat,
fluoride teeth flash victory,
talk rains of rocket sorties,
guided missile accuracies,
POW Lynch rescued a thousand
and one times over
as if to right the unnamed Iraqis, dead.
Nation-lips smacking as after ice cream.
I never knew death tasted so sweet.
III
I scream
a small sound
not loud
amid CNN featuring
allied force
feeding
democracy
to children
eating shrapnel like cereal
faces not so happy
as those tasting good
morning America
on the fruity-loops ad,
nothing is better
than waking up to the beautiful ones
born free
to name the wrong
their right to batter.
I scream a small sound
like a child’s anguish
for limbs
scattered like seeds
across the battlefield
not loud as soldiers
whoo-haaing after explosions
not loud as the Egyptian youth shouts
“I hate Bush!”
in every living room
across the globe
his rage turning
turning
burning
beauty
ripe
as ready seed.
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