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.