as a kid, movies were my life,
dramas, comedies, documentaries,
miniature worlds of love and strife,
i sat down and glued
my eyes to the silver screen
to violence and blood
rich reds splashed on green;
as i late-night consumed
an Iraq war drama flick,
i heard history unwinding,
wrapping its tendrils to pick
apart my thoughts one by one
flashback frames spin
past bloodstained orbs,
Iraqi bullets beat a din
in my ear drum echo chambers;
shouts shatter constructed dreams
of innocence,
sweating nightmares, muffled screams
i remembered stray bullets
ridding the body of a wayward child
red inking my green sleeves
as i cradled him, he smiled
and told me his name.
i jolt back to reality
blood forcing muscles to lift pen
capturing the totality
of my anger in writing,
film forcing finger
to tilt stylus to modern papyrus
worried thoughts linger
finger on trigger,
as I write a review,
criticizing needless dredging
of the past, through
cheap, violent thrills
meant to entertain
jaded eyes unfamiliar
with foreign terrain
my fingers move
pressing down with no direction
i transcribe his name
ink soaking a predetermined selection
of grooves, his name
echoes from the past:
Rahim.