fear grips many people at death but not sgt. brown as others frantically call out to god or repeat their military mantra he quite casually loads his last round of ammo thinking afghanistan was a rather dreary place to die but since he had died before this was merely a repeat performance his previous death in southern ohio a much greener environment was certainly as emotionally and socially as dreary he recalled being one of the unseen you know you go into a store and no one has time to wait on you as if you’re dead and already buried beneath the dung heap of societal racism his university degree only brought him further jealousy so realizing he was already dead he decided he might as well go fight for for that’s the part he could never answer but it was something to do and the dead have very little to do otherwise
the brown bag prophet was watching al jazeera news on the bar room tv as our after-work drinks came to an end he said our children are dying in iraq afghanistan and lord knows where else to defend freedom which has become a proxy term for corporate interest but that aside what about defending freedom of the press and those who’ve provided perspective on today’s issues like those reporters who were raped and those held in egyptian jails or just shot by some freedom fighting group of thugs where’s the national indignation about that oh wait i forgot about the nsa and the pursuit of that
dud snowden
male egos syria afghanistan putin’s crimea g w’s iraq war the same old story retold here’s one thing i’m really sure of brinkley could have sold them some new parts
the brown bag prophet set his flask down firmly on the park bench and said did you know or care to know over two thousand young souls have had obits written for them while defending the afghan government seems that government is as callous as ours cuz’ they’d planned on taxing the gear being sent home to wind down the war would’ve been billions of dollars damn good thing they didn’t tax us on the body bags we shipped to wives and parents or did they…
the weight of my sadness is so heavy i cannot breathe over two thousand soldiers have died already in afghanistan it is difficult to imagine the dead who were just the collateral damage of warring parties and while we mourn the loss of nineteen brave men it seems to me that flags have been or should have been at half-mast since my birth
the steering committee is pleased to announce that this year’s reunion will be held at the danish inn dinner will be aebleskiver and sausage musical entertainment will be provided by the walnut all-star polka band the gift shop has agreed to stay open until 6:30 so if you want something please show up prior to dinner the list of attendees has changed mark, paul and david were killed while serving in iraq margret, betty and ben were killed when the hospital transport they were in hit an incendiary device in afghanistan so they will not be attending this year either oh and frank was the victim of a drive-by-shooting while vacationing in la so he should be taken off your list given how things are going next year’s roster of attendees may be even smaller than this year however the senator will be discussing after dinner the importance of military deployment as a step towards world peace
blood sacrifices uninterrupted since the birth of man offered daily to mammon from afghanistan to la a simple offering of human blood to appease the greed of a given few and so it was the second day of satan
Mammon is a term, derived from the Christian Bible, used to describe material wealth or greed, most often personified as a deity, and sometimes included in the seven princes of Hell.
when do we become our enemy how many lives must be taken before we are them or is it not a number but when we accept their rules of behavior and we kill to purify our nation as they did
oh how spring
brings forth from poets
a multitude of verses
a never-ending array
of love lost
and then regained
friendship betrayed
and then forgiven
like an army of prodigal sons
birth and rebirth
more flowers than in a monet painting
colorful rituals of every sort
say but one
removal of the christmas training wheels
although not practiced everywhere
it is one which these poets have forgotten
and like all rituals it has its steps
first to ride upon the softest grass
assuring no injury to the child
leaving only injured ants in its wake
no unexploded ordinances here
unlike the fields in vietnam
next moving to the cruel street
father racing beside his child
legs pumping and out of breath
protecting his child from his past pain
like a parent in beirut, afghanistan, iran
or east la
where learning to ride is not an option
finally at the child’s insistence
the father is banned to the bay window
watching his child challenge the world alone
with coffee cup in hand
still running beside his child
and with his first fall
the first scars upon his heart
as the child continues to confront the world
the father cannot end his virtual race
and with each fall
another scar
Read Between the Minds 