1.

He tied his shoes, looked out of his window

nothing but darkness, but the murmur

of others was there

A complete peace settled within him

this day—

planned meticulously

with the others.

Dying was a gift in this tumultuous world

and if done right, he'd exit like a martyr

leaving no trace behind.

We all shared the sentiment:

death for us

was a direct entry out of this hell—

this Jahanam.

And so, he would show no fear.

And so he would show no mercy.

2.

Bodies lay in layers, one upon the other

Once hot with the exertion of dance

Swaying to the rhythmic pulse of electronic music.

A black and white vision comes to mind:

bodies lay layered, bereft of sustenance

In black and white Europe.

A haunting vision in the subconscious of a people

A grief, unquestionable

lingering

in its duration.

An October surprise unfolds,

With humans ablaze in conflict's fire.

Choices, stark and gut-wrenching

demand contemplation, Weighing the gravity

of horrors bringing the beheadings

pose a macabre question:

Which is more heinous?

Witnessing a child's agony as they die a bloody death.

Or a child, bereft, witnessing a parent's violent end?

The atrocities captured on film

snuff films, worse even somehow

A terror intended to shock, disorient

echoing past traumas.

A forced awakening to acute awareness

that was thought to be forever eliminated

from the planet.

3.

In time, And yet, But Still,

The clarity of violence emerged

amidst the chaos.

Retribution descended

upon a populace already wronged

Bodies,

once again

emaciated,

Lay beneath the debris of shattered homes

Collapsing into themselves.

Countless bombs descended

claiming myriad lives

Posing a shared moral quandary:

To be the child, adrift in a realm of unfathomable cruelty, watching their parents blown apart.

Or the parents,

extracting a small lifeless form from the wreckage.

A voice approaches the grieving

Assuring them

that all was done within the rules of warfare.

4.

Transfixed abroad, scenes of wailing people

haunt our screens, carried in every pocket

every palm.

Generations butchered, blown apart

create a need, a call to action

resonating, echoing.

So we take to the streets

or to our temples or

commit unthinkable acts against 7 year olds

Never simply pausing to reflect

our little lottery win

born without the fear of flames or thirst

Never mind this—

A time to choose sides, to align ourselves

in a world starkly divided

painfully unbalanced.

The words are just there

I swear--

Floating out in the air

Waiting to be picked

Thoughtfully placed together so

Perfectly that it becomes a map

For everything bad, cruel, wicked

All I wish for you to stay away from

and to be mindful of there nature

It’s a problem,

that no human can ever resolve

To find the perfect sentence

A string of the words, turn of phrase

That would protect you

and guide you completely

to safety,  always in the direction

And you'd fear no longer

Perhaps then, I could write something out

That leads you astray, right into a knife

Or a hurricane, or all the terrors of the world

No, for you, and for me, the words remain

unorganized, misplaced,  lose

“I love you,”

Doesn’t stop you from getting cancer

'I hate you,” signifies a worn out emptiness

No, these two phrases have been found long ago

And pieced together, with great ceremony

and meaning was given and lost

Perhaps

it is cloaked in gibberish, what we seek

Eventually I’ll write a whole book of it

I bet you'll open it up and

You’ll cum or blow your own head off

All because the words hae been picked

And so carefully put together

in their clocked meaninglessness

I will have you

and so many others convinced

Convinced in the words, just like now

But not particularly

Two Buildings On The Same Street

It’s 2AM and it’s hot out

and the drugs

really starting to kick into

my neurotransmitters

So I hunt along the sidewalk, knowing

In my neighborhood the dark, lonely spots

That they would have

a community meeting

If they knew whete they were

and what

Was happening there, with us

first alone then— not

And finally there is cum

on the playground

Some kids fast asleep

dreaming nightmares

And I’m back to the hunt

on the sidewalk

There is this other place I go speeding away

Pass by the Baptist church

and feel guilty

Right down the street

there

Is a methadone clinic.

The opiate of the masses

I was glad

I wouldn’t be using either this night

The bullet entered his right temple before the chorus of the song, his brains blown all over the street before he was even able to process the familiar melody he once loved.

No time to enjoy one of his favorite anthems, the bullet entering his skull almost exactly as the lyrics started:

"Baby, I'm going to change your world...." the singer started off.

The driver shook his head and turned the volume up.

***

He inhaled deeply, handed me the pipe, and blew out a great cloud of poisons and toxin.

It was my turn, I had become a little human shaped factory, puffing pollutants into the air from inside my lungs.

This methamphetamine was chemically rich and full of poison never meant to be smoked by a human being.

We heard the gunshots outside our tenderloin SRO room that cost us about 800 bucks a month

for a little coffin of a place with a tiny bed.

We smoked to make sure we didn't sleep. And to provide our own increasingly paranoid thoughts, 

a new terrible urgency to be spoken with.

A machine gun spattering of words

that would flow in an endless barrage

of non-sequiters and misguided beliefs often conspiratorial in nature.

Ultimately, it would be a shared report of the constant pit of useless babble that was our lives.

We spoke until our jaws were sore

and our eyes felt dry and red

and our breath smelled rotten

like the room we were sitting in.

We heard the gunshots and assumed we were finally at war.

Then the song played out, and we stood up and started to gather our things, looking for something.

Everyone loved this song. It was clear the war was over and peace -

in a split second,

decidedly reigned upon the tenderloin.

We peered out the window

and we saw a man leaning forward

with half of his head all over the place in a car.

A man wad smoking a cigarette in the front seat with one foot on the ground, door wide open.

He turned the music up louder.

The war was over.

We had no idea what was next, and we smoked and smoked because we didn't want to know.

Certainly, the tide would change

there outside of the window.

And our money was nearly gone.

Soon, it would be us in the war-torn streets.

The bullet entered his right temple before the chorus of the song, his brains blown all over the street before he was even able to process the familiar melody he once loved.

No time to enjoy one of his favorite anthems, the bullet entering his skull almost exactly as the lyrics started:

"Baby, I'm going to change your world...." the singer started off.

The driver shook his head and turned the volume up.

***

He inhaled deeply, handed me the pipe, and blew out a great cloud of poisons and toxin.

It was my turn, I had become a little human shaped factory, puffing pollutants into the air from inside my lungs.

This methamphetamine was chemically rich and full of poison never meant to be smoked by a human being.

We heard the gunshots outside our tenderloin SRO room that cost us about 800 bucks a month

for a little coffin of a place with a tiny bed.

We smoked to make sure we didn't sleep. And to provide our own increasingly paranoid thoughts, 

a new terrible urgency to be spoken with.

A machine gun spattering of words

that would flow in an endless barrage

of non-sequiters and misguided beliefs often conspiratorial in nature.

Ultimately, it would be a shared report of the constant pit of useless babble that was our lives.

We spoke until our jaws were sore

and our eyes felt dry and red

and our breath smelled rotten

like the room we were sitting in.

We heard the gunshots and assumed we were finally at war.

Then the song played out, and we stood up and started to gather our things, looking for something.

Everyone loved this song. It was clear the war was over and peace -

in a split second,

decidedly reigned upon the tenderloin.

We peered out the window

and we saw a man leaning forward

with half of his head all over the place in a car.

A man wad smoking a cigarette in the front seat with one foot on the ground, door wide open.

He turned the music up louder.

The war was over.

We had no idea what was next, and we smoked and smoked because we didn't want to know.

Certainly, the tide would change

there outside of the window.

And our money was nearly gone.

Soon, it would be us in the war-torn streets.