Untitled

Found this while fixing a drawer in my table.  From 2003, and it must’ve been written during one of my nights at Cadets with my friend Athena.

Untitled

As the soldier marches on the field,
the screams of terror grow.
Not a person does his gun yield.
How did we sink so low?
Piles of bodies lying everywhere,
puddles of ruby liquid on the ground.
No doctor to seek for care,
musical notes of pain is the only sound.
The rumbling of tanks on soil
as scary as an earthquake under my feet.
Everywhere I turn there is turmoil,
and there is barely anything to eat.

Boy With a Gun

Yay!  Non-gay poetry!

Boy with a Gun

Unmolded clay
now shaped by the butt of a rifle.
In a town where guns outnumber souls,
you’d trade beads of sweaty work
for bullets
Feeding a copper addiction.
The same alkaline aftertaste of blood
quenching your thirst.
This mutation of a species
unnatural combination of two stages of life —
a feeble larva with a powerful stinger
re-writing survival of the fittest

Revolver
Pistol
Machine
Don’t matter what you hold.
You’re still a child playing a grown-up’s pastime.
Abort while you can.
This dress-up game has gone on too long.