harbinger of war…

empty eyes
staring out
a hollow soul
like pilate
washing his hands
as if
can remove
the stench
of death
woven into the fabric
of his armani suit
paid for
the profits
from war

when pilate saw…

i am an old soldier
the scars i have
and the wars
i’ve fought
are many
each scar you see
is yours
for each war
has been for you
so my blood
runs in your veins
transfused there
by some battlefield medic
that you have
only read about
not cared about
as you stood in line
at starbucks
holding the morning news
in hands now ink-stained
hands that you washed
as if the ink was blood
and you wash them again
when i returned home
scrubbing me from your memory
as well as any thought
of your part
in those deaths
upon the cross
of freedom

pharisees of kansas…

holding high their golden calf
they stand outside death’s gates
as if wishing to enter hell today
instead of at their appointed time
these pharisees like maggots
invade the souls of the bereaving
mocking them like centurions of rome
casting lots for the garments of all true disciples
the chief priest and his elders
asked not for him to come down from the cross
but that others be crucified with him
wanting to nail every hand but theirs
on a cross for failing to join in
as they offer a sponge of vinegar
to the those left outside the sepulcher
they relish these moments
like a drunken whore at an orgy
yet like all false prophets
they dress in the royal robes of sanctity
these pharisees with their lawyers
going to every corner of the globe
offering false witness as was predicted
of these satanic soldiers of barabbas
stooping to remove the coins from the eyes of the dead
to fashion a new idol for the beast they worship
offering up prayers to the nine pilates
in the common hall for thirty pieces of silver
but when the veil of the temple
is rent for the final time
there will be
to pay