5:00 March 19, 2003

(or Lament for Iraq – A country extinct in the 21 century AD)

wind bites into my face
tearing pieces of heat off my flesh
the rain, like a bat,
beats down on me
in hate

something is wrong
death is in the air
and Mother is angry

somewhere else
rain doesn’t fall from the sky
only bombs
wrapped in a flag
as if to represent a savior, a giver of life

(but if you pry open those eyes
- and the mind attached to them -
you’ll see the once bright
blue and white
smudged
by an ever growing rusty stain
of red)

a nation is about to die
an execution,
scheduled to the minute

No,
this is going to be a beating
and when the skull is finally cracked open on the curb
with our heel halfway inside
(like a thumb that pressed too hard on an egg)
our plastic surgeons will go to work
insert silicon, genetic codes,
and Christianity
to forge a frankenstein

To take our turn as God.

i look outside and the wind is waiting
to crush me with atmosphere
death is in the air
and Mother is angry