Blood and Kevlar pornography

War now screens in HD
each Tomahawk contrail arching across
a 72 inch LED TV bought during a mad rush
the day after Thanksgiving.
 
Hundreds of channels and a single thing on
should be rated MA for mature audiences –
the blood and Kevlar pornography;
numbers flow- ammo type, fighter speed, 
how many equivalent tons of TNT are getting dropped- 
how many militants died and how many villagers
were stupid enough to get in the way
of their own liberation.
 
When the carnage dies down,
and after a commercial break
to sell crappy beer and cut-rate car insurance
a camera always pans to a roundtable –
five white people, gleaming teeth
and sweatshop-made suits
growing red-faced and indignant
asking “why do they hate us!?”

 

Does not know where it dwells

We whirl, delirious, exhausted
in a gyre ’round the truth
we feel its pull, gravity
yet it is so far away
even keenest sight does
not know where it dwells.
 
Each second of a lifetime is spent adance
each step new, though queerly familiar;
though it is rarely made for two
it is something every soul must perform.
 

 

 

Rust-hued hair

Cold does not see class.

Nor race, religion –

Where you come from,

where you are now

and where you plan to go in the future.

Cold is egalitarian.

Cold is just.

When the trees wake up in a panic

wondering where their rust-hued hair

has gone –

they stand

side by side

with the children, waddling penguins in their parkas

as the school bus is late again.

Someone amidst everyone

Humankind escalates.
It sees the past as
at best, a quaint reminder –
perhaps one to keep in a model town
for the schoolchildren to shuffle through
on a dreary Tuesday morning.

Each day – more intense.
Grown turgid; more people
with more expectations-
dreams, fears, grim realizations
all draped with a chatter as seven
billion and counting try to find
someone amidst everyone

Frost-haired men in high-buckled trousers
sitting at a well-worn diner booth, while the Earth hums
in a note they’ve long since ceased to hear.
The planned obsolescence complete,
they have become living fossils of a time
one can’t be bothered to remember.

Fields long dead

The grass, lilting amidst speckled sun and steady breeze;
Laughs and puts forth its vibrant color for the world to see;
Amidst the knotted trees whiling away their closing years;

Children of the melting snow, knowing only ever-brightening days;
Each blade knows not the history, the joy, the tragedy;
That fields long dead were witness to;
Covered in petals, spring snows, the checkered picnic blanket;
The bare feet of men new to this world;
And the boots of a dying man, laid to rest with his bayonet;

Oaks sag with the weight of history, and;
Gaze upon the young grass that will soon wither;
As a thousand fields have done before their arching branches;

It is best to leave them to their play;

As the sand falls

If I came upon an hourglass;
Where time flowed from what could;
To what is, then to what was once;
And held in my open palm the sand;
Of joy, sadness, loss, and redemption;
Would I want to know what story the grains;
Yet to fall would tell?;
Or would I wait for time to etch;
The story of my life, where each chapter;
Held but mere foreshadowing of the next;
And was the author, the emperor of recluses, preparing for an;
Eleventh-hour twist?

On a night long since forgotten

When the shimmering strip of our home galaxy

Illuminated faces of silent wonderment

Our place was settled, and the cosmos reached out

And welcomed us as its children

The cosmos never forgets, to a degree that

An elephant would find excessive-

It sits, Indian-style and whispers amongst itself

As though Earth is a grand theater and

The cosmos has not been shushed by a

Red-clad usher

Do its children remember that night,

Before the calendar informed us that we

Were hurtling forward, when every night was a festival

Of the always-renewed covenant

We, the children borne of stars and time

Gaze up into the mother’s eyes

And see with perfect clarity and see

The unity of the past