1. man of WAR
is this me? my of all of be?
my being, destiny…?
I wore,
and now carry my country’s colors and self-destruction smile, that in that God we Trust Sacred
Government Plan, gives me and my family this lack of understand…
YESTERDAY, when I kicked in an Afghani HomeLand Door,
squeezed my patriotic M-16 whore, ended life for that boy-with-the bomb,
cascade blood of him and his God on the floor—
My Captain calls them, “sand niggers.” tells me the trigger is “divine destiny,”
but then, there’s an epiphany, a kaleidoscope of a dead walking man’s theme of reality.
Feel the flash and that brain deaf grasp! or my life wrap???
an RPG that Shaheed got off as he cursed me,
and praised Allah! and praised Allah, and I found out months later,
his name and his teen face means, “servant of the witness.” And I was that ONE.
In Shall Allah! Bless me Father or I have sinned!

2. and, now our Gods
created this flesh-pumpkin human remnant,
human void, with eyes, a hole for a nose an one arm an one leg that misses its other,
that’s now where it belonged; Afghani HomeLand,
USA, Afghan; god and allah, sacred songs. we write together, that boy and I.
Now draped in this warm scarlet flow of current destiny, I can’t hear what I know are screams
that
have to be coming from what’s left of my mouth! I ‘ m scar ed and scar ed and GOD WHERE
THE FUCK WERE YOU!!? A white noise comes from some bowels below, I can’t see, pity me I
scream to nothing, and it answers with my future.
The noise de-amplifies to some things I can comprehend,
again. Hospital Medi-Vac Germany country survive, now this Opiate haze pain daze as I am
carved and sculpted like some sculptural scriptural(?) work of something,
certainly not art.
but I do smile at the absurdity of my work for my country, my inane life haze is numbed with
the opitiactic medicational poppies from a plant that grows in that land! Afghani Homeland ;
that I was destroying/defending/pretending/befriending all in the name of a political manifesto
of a rogue apostle I saluted to.

3. Just an Apostate lie,
This man of war--
has lost his Gladiatorial grace , why God, won’t they let me see my face?
I hear and feel and see my fellow dogs of war leave in one way or another from that medicated
place, then I lay quite again lay quiet and let them probe, and cut, and do their art;
one day my dogs of war tell me with exuberation, that Osama Bin Something-it don’t matter
anymore-has been “neutralized”
and Geronimo’s Cadillac turned out to be the USS Fuck You via a one way ride thanks to the
navy seals,
burial at sea with that Navy proxy: priest, rabbi, holyman, Imam initiating a funeral, for some
coerced government’s tribunal of this destiny of us the men,
Of War.
I’ve become a sculptural work of a remnant of myself; our separate scriptural ignore,
that boy and I, forgive us our Gods,
we now both resolve to our separate realities, these lives of war’s, man’s trial-and-error;
our futures, our past. the present…..
I envy the boy,
he’ll never see a mirror again.