1
Sidewalks transpose themselves in their quiet, approachable, sophistication.
An old war buck lapses his privately owned memoire, marched sidewalk.
His light heavily sagging, blue eyes, beseech mine. With an almost
orderly movement, his hand slips out of his pocket. A ghost of a hand
drops a rusted in tears anchor that resembles a Purple
Heart.
He stops.
Then,
he speaks.
He asks:
“Private... have you met a courageously naive solider
on your pilgrimage
tonight?”
My arrogance invests thousands in my tongue,
but
my mouth ejaculates a simple
“yes. I have indeed, sir.”
I proceed to
tell him my other interruption.
“You see good sir, my concrete
path paralleled a politician’s of some
importance, early this night.
He
must have been orphaned from heaven,
his manner was not meek,
but his
wreck of a mind was militant
and
was motivated by greed.
Then coming
from the opposite side of the street I saw a valiant solider of
the
generations,
from
and
to come,
walking.
He slowed down
and
picked up an infant
child, from the womb of time.
The infants soul had been separated from
his anatomy.
The solider started to pelt the politician as they came
closer together with bomb shells of anguish and pain. The explosion,
on impact to the politician’s body, released the feeling of death
by war. Though to my surprise, the fraudulent politician did not cower.
It was as if
he was incapable of feeling.
The solider stopped
and
pivoted
towards me,
his eyes fluttered across the street of life
and
death,
to
set focus on mine.
Within that brief second, I was jolted into the
past,
into a battle.
2
Bombs sweetly raged in tune,
screams
fell on deaf and lost ears,
my existence in this battle...was unknown.
I
existed outside the normal rules of time.
I was invisible to both of
the peasant workhorse’s uniforms.
I was an onlooker-
in a past war-
in
a past moment-
my head took a fearful stroll down my body,
I seemed
to be outfitted in an erratic uniform.
Often red with cold blood,
occasionally
with its illogical army green.
(If the military would just go to red
B.D.U.’s, they’d save a lot in laundry
bills.)
5 or so feet away
from my position in this politically created hell I saw a man ritually
attempting to pick up his “less to manufacture weapon” but he couldn’t
complete his trained itinerary. The obsolete fog withered away like
the life of the men on the napalm
insulated soil... past the point
of help.
The solider was sterile from the gunpowder haze.
I could see
his set back.
He lacked the five slender appendages and the tilted
square of flesh that so rightfully belonged there. His face and his
spastic body jolted, brewing shock, he was unaware of his enigma.
A combat medic grabbed him by his shirt and properly treated his senators
vote for war. I cringed at the sight of the homeless blood and flesh.
I turn to cover my mouth. My eyelids squeezed as tight as the other
would let it go without
overlapping each other.
3
I peeked open, like when I was a child waiting for a surprise, to
find that
my environment had altered,
my feet now sat in an un-content
village,
I stood
over looking the burnt fleshy body of the vile communist
leader of the
savage rebels...
His hammer and sickle logoed diapers
ignited briskly.
His age could not surpass one year of life on this
planet.
But according to our self proclaimed heroic politicians with
their ivy
league educations, this rebel has obtained the ambition(understandable),
and ammunition(that we sold them) to assassinate with worth. In his
two miniature fluttering hands he holds enough competence to kill
with the best,
though this rebel’s communist rotted mind is looking
for one thing... His mothers breast. In the competition of hunger
vs. murder hunger wins. My pupil’s scan up the mothers torso, to where
her head should be assembled,
but due to our “smart bombs”... they
thought it would be wise to have this
communist lack the ability to
smile
and
look
into her child’s eyes.(what will they think of next?)
The combat medic
grabs the child’s extra crispy body
and
realize in a few seconds that
the child’s burns won’t allow him to live
through the night.
The combat
medic’s president would be proud that there is one less person in
this world who does not believe in the power and freedom to live in
democracatic country.
The solider stands alone now and,
says:
“for
God and Country...right?” questioning himself.
“God has to be happy
with what I’ve done... right?”
The solider is on the verge of a mental
breakdown now.
“I mean!.....it, it is not okay to murder one man....but...but
if we murder
this way it is classified as “foreign policy”....and
God says to “follow the
law of the land!!!”
The solider than
considered and found comfort in the fact that at least when
he got
home from all of this madness he would have all those people there
to
tarnish the names
and honor of the men who died for these peoples
“freedom”.
And
at that sight my vision,
it, abruptly ended.
4
I was back on the sidewalk,
I saw that valiant solider.
He was wearing
the uniform of:
every solider,
from EVERY country,
from EVERY race,
from
EVERY time,
from EVERY single war every fought,
with the child melting
away in his hands and arms.
He passed the politician.
Their passing
only lasted a moment, for me, an onlooker.
But for the:
soldiers
and
the
innocent civilians...
It will last for eternity.
No amount of peace
relays will fix our hunger to kill one another. Just give us an excuse
for war... We’ll call it a reason for just cause.
My Madness March at Midnight
