is to feed you something we may not agree with.
Someone said but don't do anything
to jeopardize your mental health and well being.
Still, we contend with the unspeakable art of war
I am left with the image of the pure wrath of a shamal—
a sandstorm hummocking over the barracks
beneath the angry red eye of the desert sun
as if the fist of God descended from a clear sky.
A blond Iraqi wind howls in babble-tongues.
A soldier laments: you can't shoot yourself in the head twice
as the air charged with the neon flames of St Elmo's Fire,
fluoresced from his gun like a halo.
What's the difference between a poet and a prophet?
What makes us different than a bird or the clay red dirt?
We confront, we inspire writing used as a weapon.
I ate something that didn't agree with the talk of old age
but words are rebirthed in the midwifery of the mind.
In dreams we are reminded of who we are
and who remains standing in their sleep.
We are sleepwalking towards the precipice.
In grace we become sand angels.
is this what God would have us be
in this godforsaken desert?
We are not seeking the voice of God
within the sandstorm of madness.
Hacking apart a nation is brutal work.
The damned in the White House is illegally blind
to suffering and the writing on the wall.
We should all be lobbing a maelstrom of shoes
at that old warmonger.
On the eve of the Primaries, I realized
I have been depressed for seven years.
We no longer celebrate time by the New Year
but by elegies to Septembers and elevenses.
But there is hope coming in November.
The name of hope is Barak not barrack,
not this Shock and Awe war for oil
and the wind's name is Obama,
a bit of every bloodstream,
he is everyman's hope.
Walker Creek, CA
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