"basra" poems
in this world
the drums of scrap
steps leading
CIA man nodded
neutralize it.
"So we understand yes?"
"Fascinating."
massacre
Understood?
Saddam Hussein
On her next stopover in Basra
black-Nigel, came kissing?
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 2:30 AM UTC
Rapid Eye Movements
cruise down the Autobahn,
driving dreams of soldiers
slaying the Beast in the East:
seeds hidden in the cuff links
that return home for the victory parade.
The victory parade of the new millennium
is a mirage: desert sand creeps
through the streets of Basra;
spray painted slogans of “Aryan Nation”
are left behind on pock-marked walls.
High level terror alerts
scroll across the Fear o' Dome,
breeding paranoid glances
from commercial-class passengers
while they fly above fenced camps
where centralized secret service agents
watch the unloading of another train.
"Son, do you forget the sacrifices?
Have you lost all your respect?
Okay, it’s possible that the Feds
were influenced by the Purebreds—
a minor repercussion
of maintaining our national security.
It isn’t even about racial purity—
you are all mixed now, anyway.
Whether female, black, jew, or gay,
we must unite together as a nation;
raise its flag with pride,
and fight against a common enemy!
This enemy is trying to disintegrate
the cornerstone of our free society!
Son, can you not see! Not see-notsee-notsea-notsi-notzi-natzi-nazi-natzi-notzi-notsi-notsea-notsee-not see!"
_____
—cold sweat.
I awaken to remnants of nightmarish images
sifting through my mind:
flocks of carnivorous sheep
with invisible shepherds.
The dream had felt real—
solid, like flesh-out reality.
I rush out of bed,
just to make sure.
From my bedroom window,
I see the neighbour’s Iron Eagle weathervane
goose-stepping towards the west.
A lawnmower growls in the background.
Everything appears normal here
on the corner of 4th Reichstag Blvd.
2016 Neu Berlin Remix, July 13th, 2016
(original version was written on March 29th, 2010)
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC
We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was booby-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
What now, the loss of limbs in a distant conflagration?
The seeping brains amongst poppy fields?
The myriad nature of violent death, outside of journalistic imagination
A grind of experience on which the lost youth builds.
What now? Within the shredding blasts euphoria
The élan of a soldier, in memoria
Downing drinks in the Stag and Hare
After a tour, ordinary actions reek of tedium
There is, in the conviviality, no rush of adrenalin there
Fermenting trouble establishes a happy medium.
Quarrelling with a man who wears a business suit
Is displaced adventure, smashing his face in is a hoot.
What now? A mate, a favoured friend, dies in the dirt
When whistling a tune, recalling the holiday in Spain, the family,
A shot coursing through his unbuttoned shirt
Deflating his lung, another shattering his knee
When he died, his platoon died too,
Metaphorically; the snipers aim was true.
Bottled up in Basra, aimlessly wandering in Helmand
A shrill event on News at Ten between politics and football,
Another death, another iconic face, the catasphropic end
Of a youthful life. What now? The swift end to a morning stroll
Amongst watching villagers in dry breathless mountains
Empty streams and florescent fountains.
In the terracotta dirt my soul leaked away
My final return was like a funeral celebration,
I said nothing anymore. I had nothing left to say.
I’d given my youth to a sniping cynical nation.
What now? It was over for me in a grasping world-
A gooey puddle spread beneath me as my soul evacuated.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
Man is cruel, Man is kind,
Far from home, on arid land,
A litter fell on Arab sand,
Mother’s milk did taste so sweet,
She foraged out on hostile streets.
At night as humans sealed their fate,
By leaving each to nature’s fate.
For food and water the ***** did *****
That pup and her could live in hope,
Each win brought forward sunlit dawn,
The pup awaits her new day morn,
Till one desperate day the padding paws,
Of mother did not return at all.
Weak abandoned, struck with stones,
The starving pup abandoned home,
Cruel sun and humans tortured her,
And she decided she’d had enough,
Of constant hate and absent love.
Allowed by Law of God above.
She crawled with last remaining force,
And whispered with her throat so hoarse.
“Leave me be - beneath this bin,
When it’s over, throw me in.”
A week of cowering, ‘neath the steel,
Giving up each moment to mortal wheel.
Turning closer to the end,
Of pain, despair and suffering.
Whenever humans did come near,
With dehydrated constant fear,
She buried herself deeper down,
Away from hope in hopeless town.
One noise persisted above the rest,
But human kindness cannot expect,
A dog-eared dog in plastic shroud,
To welcome those inhuman crowds,
Whose only act in her short life,
Was taunts and stones and sharpened knives.
Still weakness and despair did come,
And to the gentle hand succumbed,
Unguarded neck - she did not care,
If flash of blade would cease her pain.
Light? Blinding sun! And sweet caress,
And milk? And water? And what is best!
The soothing stroke of calloused hand,
The coolness given as air was fanned,
And vaseline to smother ticks,
Head and shoulders, giving licks,
Of love and thanks to one whose kindness,
Battled through the Basra blindness,
The fate of Warpaws, so far away,
Was followed close by those who cared.
And all of those who did donate,
Were praying for her to be saved.
There’s millions more, but there’s no ban.
On trying to save the one you can.
So Alex, Jen and countless more,
You fought the fight but knew the score.
The chances of surviving past,
Emaciation and then at last,
Damage she’d never overcome.
Still - you tried to save this one.
Think on this now all is done.
Her final week – no baking sun,
Nor plastic melted to her skin,
But care and food and water in,
The faith of he who wrapped her up,
In tattooed arms of endless love.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 6:41 AM UTC
We were down in the province of Basra, Iraq
For reasons not precisely clear.
Our objective that day was a Shia run town;
A town named Sari Mi Dyr.
The road to the town was a minefield of sorts
It was booby-trapped with I.E.D.’s.
Still it was the constant sniping that caused
the bulk of our casualties.
The day was as hot as a woman’s scorn
when the last of her tears have dried.
I’ll remember this road to Sari Mi Dyr
On which so many good friends have died.
The day was near spent when command showed some sense;
We heard our choppers draw near.
They aborted the mission and extracted my men
From that hellhole called Sari Mi Dyr.
I’m writing my after action report,
and trying to hold back a tear;
When I think of the good men and women who died
On the road to Sari Mi Dyr.
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 8:53 PM UTC