My poem published here
left me unsatisfied
with the imagery
of our weaponized nation,
us accustomed to killing,
but not to being killed
in the padded comfort
of our own civilization.
But our bullets being real,
and our armies vast
and far flung,
the question is not moot.
Ideology, this painting
into which we’ve been added
with considerable skill
yet more or less against our will,
what is it worth, exactly?
Violence is now a den
a homebuilt shrine of fame,
and my whole-hearted plea
rosary to a few words of blame.
As our numbers begin
to multiply ad nauseum,
and our food dwindles
to a trickle of loot,
as our water, hard-won,
now escapes into the soup
of salty heat and smog
and we bicker endlessly
about who said what
not yesterday but in year one,
I beg you to lift your head
and look around the bend.
Is it beautiful down there?
Or do you say to yourself,
as I do almost every day,
let me enjoy this sunshine
since it won’t last all the way?
jam12
