I yeehaw,
As I mount my squaw.
She's let me wear the cowboy hat
While the cat,
Once kitten, confidant and confessor
Of her predecessor,
Spectates...
As I *******.
She was actually born in Mumbai,
But I
Still ride the bomb as I fly.

I rest upon A grassy mound,
My mind spectates whats around.
Its A beautiful day,
I hope it won’t rain.
The skies are clear,
No birds too near.
I appoint my detector,
To search for the nectar.
I fly too A flower,
Hear it cry,
“Why choose me, oh butterfly.”

A young father passes his infant son
between tense barbed wires.
The cloudy blue sky silently spectates.

The grass isn’t green, but golden on
the other side, warm and inviting.
Young girls smile and take the small child.

Glancing behind him, the father spots
the border patrol, first trying
frantically to climbing over, then

Frozen by shouts of armed men,
his eyes fill with brave tears, and
He touches the boy’s face goodbye.

He breaks and barks I flee with his precious
child, my smile gone— I run,
quickly and carefully delivering the infant

To freedom, opportunity, and life.
Gun shots sting our ears,
the small boy cries, and our hearts pound.

Orphans in a golden valley wilt while
the wonderful world blooms
with indifferent innocence, everlasting.

The blade chooses and chops.
Dispensing clotted closure.
Silken Crimson
Pumping through.
Sodden clothes.  
Weakening resistance
Hands up go down.
Sliced and diced.
Wavy ribbons.
Metal spectates.
The corpse is moving.
Slimy red slug going nowhere.
The slug stays nowhere.