Lisa pins the holly up on the wall in just the right place.
“That’s where Dan would hang it,” she thinks with pride.
January 12th is the magical date;
The day when everything will finally be set right.
She hums as she goes about her work, decorating the house
For the Christmas that is just around the corner.
Less than a month now until everything will be okay.
The radio is playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”
And that is what Lisa is humming, she realizes.
It was unconscious for a while, as she was concentrating
Quite hard on getting the star to stand up straight on the top
Of the Christmas tree, jangling its lights and ornaments.
All the effort is silly of course, as Dan won’t be home for Christmas,
But she’s going to make sure that everything is just perfect.
When he comes back on January 12th,
He’ll see the place lit up like Times Square in celebration
Of his homecoming and return to Lisa’s bed and arms.
They’ll have the holiday together, even if they’re late.
It’s quiet in the house without him, but not for much longer.
He seemed so tired when she talked to him on the webcam
This Wednesday, his face lined and his voice dragging.
But he also sounded so happy; he was ready for it to be over.
He was ready to come home to her, to be done with duty.
“Christmas in Kandahar, babe. I’d rather be with you.”
Dan is her inspiration, the reason she keeps going;
Why she is able to run their ailing store by herself;
How she can still smile when the sun doesn’t shine all day;
What she looks forward to when things seem impossibly cruel.
No one else could make her feel that way, and that is fine.
There is no need for anyone else as long as his laugh is hers.
With a light leap, Lisa swings away from the tree to check on the oven
Where the sugar cookies are almost ready to come out to cool,
But there is a knock at the door.
“It must be Dan’s parents. They’re a little early, but that’s like them.”
Diverted from the kitchen, she sashays to the front door,
Glad to talk to Dan’s mother especially, as she wants her advice on a gift.
Lisa pulls the door open with a flourish and is surprised to see
Two men in green on the porch, standing tall and resolute.
The world becomes unglued as they ask if she is Mrs. Lisa Kerwin.
Her whispered, “Yes,” is almost redundant as the taller man states,
“The Secretary of the Army has asked me to express
His deep regret that your husband was killed in action…”
Nothing is real except for the radio, where Bing Crosby sings
With obscene cheer, “I’ll be home for Christmas,
If only in my dreams.”
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Waiting Under a Streetlight
He stood waiting under a streetlight
For thirty six full hours before realizing
That he was not there by the river
In Chicago at all, but was in fact
Walking Khao San Road in Bangkok,
Looking for a place to spend the night.
Four minutes later he discovered that was
Wrong and that his feet were boarding a train
Out of Mumbai, but he couldn’t recall
Where he was headed for the longest time.
Two and a half hours of riding the rails
And he remembered that he was supposed
To be in Lagos, but that he was really stuck
In Jakarta for the rest of the week until he
Could get the plane tickets sorted out.
For the time being, he sat on a bench in
Washington Square Park, tossing crumbs
At the pigeons and dimes at the musicians,
Wondering how much it would cost to
Rent a car and visit the Sorbonne while
He was waiting to hear back from…who?
Then something truly odd happened when
He thought for a moment that he was in
Tenochtitlan, apprehensively observing the
Arrival of Cortés at the palace of Moctezuma.
But no, he was flying business class to London
From Boston, with two drinks in his bloodstream,
A pillow under his head and a blindfold over his
Weary eyes, keeping out the muted artificial light
And impeding his view of the stewardess’s very
Fine ass that would be plainly visible if he could
Just move. Why couldn’t he move? Probably it
Was because he was actually singing karaoke in
Tokyo with some call girl that Tom had ordered
For their big night out on the town before going
To Rio for the second leg of the trip where they’d
Meet up with…who was it this time they needed?
He was going home after that in any case and home
Is where the heart is, but isn’t your heart in your
Body, and so isn’t home wherever your chest is?
No, home was in Grand Rapids or Algiers, though
It was likely in Rome, or it could have been Naples.
But now Cape Town seems more familiar, certainly
A better candidate than Lille, but maybe not as sure
As Quito, or possibly Montreal, though the winters
Are out of place, so maybe it was really Riyadh?
He sighed and brought his bicycle to a halt outside
His apartment building in Shanghai and looked to
The upper floors where his temporary home nested.
How could he have forgotten that he was in Cairo?
Clearly because he was still waiting for this delivery
And the delay and anxiety was messing with his head.
The rivulets of rain spattered his shoes when he let
His eyes fall back down to the ground, and he cursed
The weather, as he only had one day in Sydney before
They headed inland to see the Himalayas or climb them?
In frustration he kicked the curb and went back to waiting
Under the streetlight, motionless on a corner in Chicago.
For thirty six full hours before realizing
That he was not there by the river
In Chicago at all, but was in fact
Walking Khao San Road in Bangkok,
Looking for a place to spend the night.
Four minutes later he discovered that was
Wrong and that his feet were boarding a train
Out of Mumbai, but he couldn’t recall
Where he was headed for the longest time.
Two and a half hours of riding the rails
And he remembered that he was supposed
To be in Lagos, but that he was really stuck
In Jakarta for the rest of the week until he
Could get the plane tickets sorted out.
For the time being, he sat on a bench in
Washington Square Park, tossing crumbs
At the pigeons and dimes at the musicians,
Wondering how much it would cost to
Rent a car and visit the Sorbonne while
He was waiting to hear back from…who?
Then something truly odd happened when
He thought for a moment that he was in
Tenochtitlan, apprehensively observing the
Arrival of Cortés at the palace of Moctezuma.
But no, he was flying business class to London
From Boston, with two drinks in his bloodstream,
A pillow under his head and a blindfold over his
Weary eyes, keeping out the muted artificial light
And impeding his view of the stewardess’s very
Fine ass that would be plainly visible if he could
Just move. Why couldn’t he move? Probably it
Was because he was actually singing karaoke in
Tokyo with some call girl that Tom had ordered
For their big night out on the town before going
To Rio for the second leg of the trip where they’d
Meet up with…who was it this time they needed?
He was going home after that in any case and home
Is where the heart is, but isn’t your heart in your
Body, and so isn’t home wherever your chest is?
No, home was in Grand Rapids or Algiers, though
It was likely in Rome, or it could have been Naples.
But now Cape Town seems more familiar, certainly
A better candidate than Lille, but maybe not as sure
As Quito, or possibly Montreal, though the winters
Are out of place, so maybe it was really Riyadh?
He sighed and brought his bicycle to a halt outside
His apartment building in Shanghai and looked to
The upper floors where his temporary home nested.
How could he have forgotten that he was in Cairo?
Clearly because he was still waiting for this delivery
And the delay and anxiety was messing with his head.
The rivulets of rain spattered his shoes when he let
His eyes fall back down to the ground, and he cursed
The weather, as he only had one day in Sydney before
They headed inland to see the Himalayas or climb them?
In frustration he kicked the curb and went back to waiting
Under the streetlight, motionless on a corner in Chicago.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Smiley Sam
Smiley Sam picked a nickel from the ground today,
Pulled some change and a bill, an afternoon’s pay.
He stayed out of the rain and massaged his feet,
And attempted to keep his opinions of the passing elite
Quiet and to himself, but no such luck.
Smiley Sam snickered and sniggered slyly,
Praising the pompous pretty people a little too highly.
He washed his face in a fast food bathroom sink
And let the patrons complain quietly about his stink,
For he really didn’t give a flying fuck.
Smiley Sam went to sleep in front of an old store,
One that was closed down for several months or more.
He dreamed that he was plying the Colorado River,
Riding the rapids until it got so cold he awoke with a shiver,
To find that he was being robbed by Little Chuck.
Smiley Sam never did have much to his name,
And for that he never griped or tried to place blame,
But he’d be damned if some scrawny kid stepped on his toes
And stole his bag right out from under his crooked nose,
So he sat up and shouted, but got stuck.
Smiley Sam lay there for several hours,
As the rain tapered off to morning showers.
The cops finally came and covered him with a sheet,
Took him to the morgue and went back to their beat,
Smiley Sam already forgotten.
Pulled some change and a bill, an afternoon’s pay.
He stayed out of the rain and massaged his feet,
And attempted to keep his opinions of the passing elite
Quiet and to himself, but no such luck.
Smiley Sam snickered and sniggered slyly,
Praising the pompous pretty people a little too highly.
He washed his face in a fast food bathroom sink
And let the patrons complain quietly about his stink,
For he really didn’t give a flying fuck.
Smiley Sam went to sleep in front of an old store,
One that was closed down for several months or more.
He dreamed that he was plying the Colorado River,
Riding the rapids until it got so cold he awoke with a shiver,
To find that he was being robbed by Little Chuck.
Smiley Sam never did have much to his name,
And for that he never griped or tried to place blame,
But he’d be damned if some scrawny kid stepped on his toes
And stole his bag right out from under his crooked nose,
So he sat up and shouted, but got stuck.
Smiley Sam lay there for several hours,
As the rain tapered off to morning showers.
The cops finally came and covered him with a sheet,
Took him to the morgue and went back to their beat,
Smiley Sam already forgotten.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Lowlands
In the wooded lowlands of life,
Where the air hangs dank and dull
Over the moss that creeps inexorably up,
Intent on strangling the oak trees,
And the distant bells of salvation can only be faintly heard,
Chiming for others,
Reaching us intermittently through the stillness,
On the edge of hearing,
Teasing our consciousness with hope that is not ours,
There we can be found, through veils of mist and loss.
Fate leaves us stranded on that deserted stretch of land
With naught in our pockets but frozen matchbooks,
Souvenirs we took from hotels
Where we made love to our favorite lovers.
They snap in our numb fingers as we try to build a fire,
Reminding us relentlessly of our failures
And the impotence of nostalgia.
The only shelter to be found is under brambles and dead leaves;
We lie there through soft, quiet rains,
Dreaming of mud and sand.
Exiled, we tramp the day away,
Searching for flickers of meaning,
In a morass of logical nihilism,
Trying silently to maintain our composure,
As darkness descends and extinguishes,
Even the light we hold in our hand to guide us home.
Groping our way over barren moors,
We can’t help but remember that even
The home we seek is a fake, a poor copy
Not even resembling the original,
Which is lost forever in the
Furthest reaches of our memory.
Time is the sole rescuer in this timeless wilderness,
The only one who patrols the footpaths and sets the
Wanderers back on the road that leads to civilization.
And if we find his lodge by the smoke from its chimney,
And approach its warm door hoping to obtain early release,
We will see that even he is never at home,
That the smoke is from a fire long gone out;
We will see his meager possessions lying enmeshed in cobwebs,
The dust settled and undisturbed for an age or more.
Where the air hangs dank and dull
Over the moss that creeps inexorably up,
Intent on strangling the oak trees,
And the distant bells of salvation can only be faintly heard,
Chiming for others,
Reaching us intermittently through the stillness,
On the edge of hearing,
Teasing our consciousness with hope that is not ours,
There we can be found, through veils of mist and loss.
Fate leaves us stranded on that deserted stretch of land
With naught in our pockets but frozen matchbooks,
Souvenirs we took from hotels
Where we made love to our favorite lovers.
They snap in our numb fingers as we try to build a fire,
Reminding us relentlessly of our failures
And the impotence of nostalgia.
The only shelter to be found is under brambles and dead leaves;
We lie there through soft, quiet rains,
Dreaming of mud and sand.
Exiled, we tramp the day away,
Searching for flickers of meaning,
In a morass of logical nihilism,
Trying silently to maintain our composure,
As darkness descends and extinguishes,
Even the light we hold in our hand to guide us home.
Groping our way over barren moors,
We can’t help but remember that even
The home we seek is a fake, a poor copy
Not even resembling the original,
Which is lost forever in the
Furthest reaches of our memory.
Time is the sole rescuer in this timeless wilderness,
The only one who patrols the footpaths and sets the
Wanderers back on the road that leads to civilization.
And if we find his lodge by the smoke from its chimney,
And approach its warm door hoping to obtain early release,
We will see that even he is never at home,
That the smoke is from a fire long gone out;
We will see his meager possessions lying enmeshed in cobwebs,
The dust settled and undisturbed for an age or more.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Crown Thy Good
An oasis of yellow light
Adrift in an endless lead sky
Fading to restless night,
Not black in the city,
But dark enough to thoroughly
Smother the day and clouds.
This lone light in a lone building
Where a lone woman sweeps a screen
With tired squinting eyes,
Right hand jotting crooked notes
On a lined pad with scratching pencil.
This lone woman all alone,
Just like the other people
At their desks on her floor,
All around her, alone.
It is eight o’clock and another
Twelve-hour day is in progress
For nearly the entire department;
Few have gone home or are about to.
Salary employees, they get no extra pay
For extra hours worked and
The company works very carefully
To make sure they get no overtime.
The woman pushes her glasses higher
With her free hand and continues to
Push the pencil with her right.
Her associate finally quit and was not replaced,
So now she does the work for two
And gets paid for three-fourths of one.
That is called increased worker productivity.
She scribbles into the night,
Knowing that her husband will be asleep
By the time she gets home,
For the third time this week.
Hundreds of miles away
The last American factory
Still grinds gears and produces
Something you or I could hold.
The evening shift doesn’t get a break
Tonight, as another order has come in,
So the foreman said two hours ago.
Still, this man needs a cigarette and smokes
At the bathroom window,
Though it could cost him his job.
The company has already moved the plant
South to North Carolina to dissolve the union,
But the whispers are that they’re ready to
Keep going all the way down to Mexico
Where they can pay even less and the laws
Don’t have to be lobbied against
Because they don’t exist.
For now this smoking man has a job,
But for how long is anybody’s guess.
He doesn’t have health benefits
Or a wage that allows him to take
His daughters to the movie theater,
But apparently he is a weight on the
Company’s profits that must be shed.
That is called globalization.
It’s been four minutes,
So he flicks his butt
And goes back to work.
He has the right-to-work,
But not to a job,
Nor really to much else.
Back at the corporate headquarters,
Several stories above the still squinting woman,
Behind frosted glass on the top floor
Sits the CEO with a spreadsheet before him.
He has increased profits by slashing benefits,
Decreasing the head count and increasing
Demands on the workers’ time
Among the people literally and figuratively below him.
The union was tough and strong in the old plant,
Five miles away, so it was his idea to move south,
To put a thousand out of work and cut costs in half
With six hundred, “non-union non-complaining
Rednecks to do the job for now,” as he told the board.
Running the numbers, they tell him China instead
Of Mexico for the next trip.
“Chinks are cheaper than wetbacks,” he chuckles
To himself as his fingers pound the keyboard.
Profits are through the roof since he hired the right
Lobbyist to make sure they secured more cost-plus
Contracts from the government than ever before;
Profit built in, with more to be made by overcharging the
Taxpayers, the chumps that actually pay part of their income,
Unlike him or the company, who are above such silliness.
Profit dictates action and that is what he does.
Numbers are his world;
They justify the fact that he is paid
Four hundred and twelve times the smoking man
And two hundred and two times the squinting woman.
He makes the hard decisions.
And so his bank account ticks upward with every sigh
Of despair that escapes from the lips of his workers.
That is called laying the foundation for a growth economy.
Thousands of miles away
In a pre-dawn strike,
One of the company’s products
Streaks down from the cold navy sky,
A small moving part in a missile
That obliterates a sleeping house
For no discernable reason
(that is called bad intel)
In a lonely mountainous land.
The mother of four young children
Was already awake and tending to the goats
While they, her husband and his parents
Remained in bed for a little longer
Or rather, forever.
Her dusty screams pierce the still reverberating air
As she stumbles to her feet and lunges toward
The smoldering rubble of her life.
Ignoring the frightened, scattering animals
And the abrasions on her bruised body,
She throws herself down, digging with her bare hands.
The numbers man could tell you that he makes
Twenty four thousand times what this woman earns in a year,
But he could not tell you anything
About the anguish and terror
In her rasping voice
As she sobs, “Allah! Allah!”
For he can not hear her
From his seat at the summit
Of his concrete peak.
Adrift in an endless lead sky
Fading to restless night,
Not black in the city,
But dark enough to thoroughly
Smother the day and clouds.
This lone light in a lone building
Where a lone woman sweeps a screen
With tired squinting eyes,
Right hand jotting crooked notes
On a lined pad with scratching pencil.
This lone woman all alone,
Just like the other people
At their desks on her floor,
All around her, alone.
It is eight o’clock and another
Twelve-hour day is in progress
For nearly the entire department;
Few have gone home or are about to.
Salary employees, they get no extra pay
For extra hours worked and
The company works very carefully
To make sure they get no overtime.
The woman pushes her glasses higher
With her free hand and continues to
Push the pencil with her right.
Her associate finally quit and was not replaced,
So now she does the work for two
And gets paid for three-fourths of one.
That is called increased worker productivity.
She scribbles into the night,
Knowing that her husband will be asleep
By the time she gets home,
For the third time this week.
Hundreds of miles away
The last American factory
Still grinds gears and produces
Something you or I could hold.
The evening shift doesn’t get a break
Tonight, as another order has come in,
So the foreman said two hours ago.
Still, this man needs a cigarette and smokes
At the bathroom window,
Though it could cost him his job.
The company has already moved the plant
South to North Carolina to dissolve the union,
But the whispers are that they’re ready to
Keep going all the way down to Mexico
Where they can pay even less and the laws
Don’t have to be lobbied against
Because they don’t exist.
For now this smoking man has a job,
But for how long is anybody’s guess.
He doesn’t have health benefits
Or a wage that allows him to take
His daughters to the movie theater,
But apparently he is a weight on the
Company’s profits that must be shed.
That is called globalization.
It’s been four minutes,
So he flicks his butt
And goes back to work.
He has the right-to-work,
But not to a job,
Nor really to much else.
Back at the corporate headquarters,
Several stories above the still squinting woman,
Behind frosted glass on the top floor
Sits the CEO with a spreadsheet before him.
He has increased profits by slashing benefits,
Decreasing the head count and increasing
Demands on the workers’ time
Among the people literally and figuratively below him.
The union was tough and strong in the old plant,
Five miles away, so it was his idea to move south,
To put a thousand out of work and cut costs in half
With six hundred, “non-union non-complaining
Rednecks to do the job for now,” as he told the board.
Running the numbers, they tell him China instead
Of Mexico for the next trip.
“Chinks are cheaper than wetbacks,” he chuckles
To himself as his fingers pound the keyboard.
Profits are through the roof since he hired the right
Lobbyist to make sure they secured more cost-plus
Contracts from the government than ever before;
Profit built in, with more to be made by overcharging the
Taxpayers, the chumps that actually pay part of their income,
Unlike him or the company, who are above such silliness.
Profit dictates action and that is what he does.
Numbers are his world;
They justify the fact that he is paid
Four hundred and twelve times the smoking man
And two hundred and two times the squinting woman.
He makes the hard decisions.
And so his bank account ticks upward with every sigh
Of despair that escapes from the lips of his workers.
That is called laying the foundation for a growth economy.
Thousands of miles away
In a pre-dawn strike,
One of the company’s products
Streaks down from the cold navy sky,
A small moving part in a missile
That obliterates a sleeping house
For no discernable reason
(that is called bad intel)
In a lonely mountainous land.
The mother of four young children
Was already awake and tending to the goats
While they, her husband and his parents
Remained in bed for a little longer
Or rather, forever.
Her dusty screams pierce the still reverberating air
As she stumbles to her feet and lunges toward
The smoldering rubble of her life.
Ignoring the frightened, scattering animals
And the abrasions on her bruised body,
She throws herself down, digging with her bare hands.
The numbers man could tell you that he makes
Twenty four thousand times what this woman earns in a year,
But he could not tell you anything
About the anguish and terror
In her rasping voice
As she sobs, “Allah! Allah!”
For he can not hear her
From his seat at the summit
Of his concrete peak.
Monday, November 09, 2009
A poem for Monday, while it lasts (though I wrote it last Wednesday)
The future looms ahead through an icy windshield.
Wipers only scratch at the opacity with grinding whirs and clicks,
Reminding us of the utter futility of divination.
The heat sputters fitfully below the soporific breath of the engine,
Pines heavy with blindingly white snow fill the view on either side,
And we speed down the highway, completely unaware of what lies
Mere yards in front of our bumper;
A jackknifed tractor-trailer bringing certain death,
The exit we are hoping for,
Or just the open road.
Any option can only effect the then, never the now.
The cassette is rewinding so we can hear side A again,
The hum of the spinning tape blends with the general din,
Turning white noise gray.
Empty bottles and wrappers litter the floor,
French fries have fallen into the gap between the seats,
(we will smell them for the rest of the trip)
And the remnants of our sodas have gone flat.
No one even remembers how long ago the last rest stop was,
Or how many miles the last sign said there was to go.
You pull the steering wheel because you can no longer wait,
The need to stretch your legs is overwhelming,
But the car does not swerve and the future rushes at us,
The same as it ever did,
Its velocity pushing us back into the coarse cushions.
Wipers only scratch at the opacity with grinding whirs and clicks,
Reminding us of the utter futility of divination.
The heat sputters fitfully below the soporific breath of the engine,
Pines heavy with blindingly white snow fill the view on either side,
And we speed down the highway, completely unaware of what lies
Mere yards in front of our bumper;
A jackknifed tractor-trailer bringing certain death,
The exit we are hoping for,
Or just the open road.
Any option can only effect the then, never the now.
The cassette is rewinding so we can hear side A again,
The hum of the spinning tape blends with the general din,
Turning white noise gray.
Empty bottles and wrappers litter the floor,
French fries have fallen into the gap between the seats,
(we will smell them for the rest of the trip)
And the remnants of our sodas have gone flat.
No one even remembers how long ago the last rest stop was,
Or how many miles the last sign said there was to go.
You pull the steering wheel because you can no longer wait,
The need to stretch your legs is overwhelming,
But the car does not swerve and the future rushes at us,
The same as it ever did,
Its velocity pushing us back into the coarse cushions.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Modern Madness
I'd like to juxtapose a few things here that go along with my post from last night "The Bus Stop" and the theme of "true moments."
The following is the lyrics to Rammstein's "Stripped." Though they normally sing in German, this one is in English.
The song greatly recalls to my mind the novel 1984 where Winston takes to the woods in the countryside to make love to Julia, their great act of rebellion within one of the most totalitarian states ever imagined. He fumbles, hesitates at first, but before long they are lost in the most natural of acts in a way he was never able to experience with his frigid, Party-loving ex-wife back in the city.
The idea is that you can't truly share intimate moments while you're still plugged in to today's thoroughly mediated world; it is its own kind of totalitarian state, not as physically brutal as in 1984, but just as vicious and implacable in its efforts to destroy and deny what makes us human. You can't truly know another person with the television blaring, advertisements jumping out at you from all angles, incoming texts beeping for your attention and begging for response, Facebook updates that need to be made and all the millions of other distractions of modern society that prevent you from truly experiencing, from truly being in a moment. You can never truly know yourself in such an environment, either.
What to do? Well, first it means limiting your intake of all that. I don't have cable, I don't follow celebrity gossip, I don't follow sports and I don't listen to pop music. I go to the movies two or three times a year. But that isn't enough. You must attempt to create small bubbles, like pockets of air, inside it like I described in "The Bus Stop," or escape from it altogether from time to time like in "Stripped," even if it is "just for one day" or only "a few hours." It amazes me how refreshing and renewing a simple walk in the woods is for me. I'm lucky to be able to live in a city that has such wonderful national parks. DC is pretty great in that way. I leave my building, round the corner and within five minutes of getting off my couch I'm walking on an offshoot of the Glover-Archibald Trail. The trees envelope you after a few dozen yards and you may as well be out in the wilderness up on a mountain. Only the occasional sounds of planes overhead pull you from the natural world. The place is filled with insects, squirrels, chipmunks, birds, raccoons and deer. And of course dogs walking with their owners.
It is right there, so close. And yet so many of us rarely, or never, enjoy it. Putting on your running shoes, sipping a Gatorade and pulling out the stopwatch to make sure you keep your pace as you blow through the trail, thinking only of whether your new exercise shorts make your ass look fat, doesn't count by the way.
In fact, I just remembered a kind of perversion of the Prometheus story I witnessed within the last year. A deer had run out of the woods and into the business district a little south of Dupont Circle, bringing the gift of natural wonder to the Washingtonians' dreary morning commute. For its audacity and defiance of the set order of things, the deer was struck by a car on Connecticut Avenue and killed. I was walking to work and only saw the immediate aftermath of the event; the deer was already dead by the time I cam upon the scene. But there was the man looking forlorn sitting in his car, which was all smashed in the front, including the windshield. He was pulled over to the side of the road with a phone in his ear, no doubt calling his wife and AAA. And there was the deer, lying in the middle of the street behind a traffic light pole, more cars ambling past on either side of it, an obscenity, an indecency far more shocking than any nipple popping out during a concert or a curse word let slip on a morning talk show.
From the appearance of things, it didn't seem that mankind had accepted the gift this time around. We made sure to mete out the punishment ourselves as well, not trusting the gods to do so properly anymore.
But we must embrace that gift. Bathe in its purity from time to time and then carry around its residual glow. Hold at least some small portion of it until we can make our way back to such a moment again.
The alternative is a life of this:
That is a poem I wrote about a year and a half ago that was published in Adbusters magazine, Issue #78 (July/August 2008) and which can be found on the third page if you start counting from the inside cover. The object of all this is well summed up by a quote from Thomas Merton that is found near the back of that issue:
And he died in 1968, never knowing about cell phones, texting, Facebook, Myspace or Twitter. Skip ahead just a short bit to 1976 (still in an age without all those things) and one of the greatest movies of all time, Network, and we have Max, an old news man, breaking off his affair with Diana, a young television producer:
"Diana" is now in her fifties and probably looks upon us (my fellow under-30's) in much the same way Max once looked at her; from across an unfathomable gulf between meaning (diluted as it is in her) and madness. Not that she has improved at all, just that we've gotten so much worse. We have a lot to overcome, but it is not impossible.
The following is the lyrics to Rammstein's "Stripped." Though they normally sing in German, this one is in English.
Come with me
Into the trees.
We lay on the grass
And let hours pass.
Take my hand
Come back to the land.
Let's get away
Just for one day.
Let me see you stripped.
Let me see you stripped.
Metropolis
Has nothing like this.
You breathing in fumes
I taste when we kiss.
Take my hand
Come back to the land
Where everything's ours
For a few hours.
Let me see you stripped.
Let me see you stripped.
Let me hear you make decisions
Without your television.
Let me hear you speaking
Just for me.
Let me see you stripped.
The song greatly recalls to my mind the novel 1984 where Winston takes to the woods in the countryside to make love to Julia, their great act of rebellion within one of the most totalitarian states ever imagined. He fumbles, hesitates at first, but before long they are lost in the most natural of acts in a way he was never able to experience with his frigid, Party-loving ex-wife back in the city.
The idea is that you can't truly share intimate moments while you're still plugged in to today's thoroughly mediated world; it is its own kind of totalitarian state, not as physically brutal as in 1984, but just as vicious and implacable in its efforts to destroy and deny what makes us human. You can't truly know another person with the television blaring, advertisements jumping out at you from all angles, incoming texts beeping for your attention and begging for response, Facebook updates that need to be made and all the millions of other distractions of modern society that prevent you from truly experiencing, from truly being in a moment. You can never truly know yourself in such an environment, either.
What to do? Well, first it means limiting your intake of all that. I don't have cable, I don't follow celebrity gossip, I don't follow sports and I don't listen to pop music. I go to the movies two or three times a year. But that isn't enough. You must attempt to create small bubbles, like pockets of air, inside it like I described in "The Bus Stop," or escape from it altogether from time to time like in "Stripped," even if it is "just for one day" or only "a few hours." It amazes me how refreshing and renewing a simple walk in the woods is for me. I'm lucky to be able to live in a city that has such wonderful national parks. DC is pretty great in that way. I leave my building, round the corner and within five minutes of getting off my couch I'm walking on an offshoot of the Glover-Archibald Trail. The trees envelope you after a few dozen yards and you may as well be out in the wilderness up on a mountain. Only the occasional sounds of planes overhead pull you from the natural world. The place is filled with insects, squirrels, chipmunks, birds, raccoons and deer. And of course dogs walking with their owners.
It is right there, so close. And yet so many of us rarely, or never, enjoy it. Putting on your running shoes, sipping a Gatorade and pulling out the stopwatch to make sure you keep your pace as you blow through the trail, thinking only of whether your new exercise shorts make your ass look fat, doesn't count by the way.
In fact, I just remembered a kind of perversion of the Prometheus story I witnessed within the last year. A deer had run out of the woods and into the business district a little south of Dupont Circle, bringing the gift of natural wonder to the Washingtonians' dreary morning commute. For its audacity and defiance of the set order of things, the deer was struck by a car on Connecticut Avenue and killed. I was walking to work and only saw the immediate aftermath of the event; the deer was already dead by the time I cam upon the scene. But there was the man looking forlorn sitting in his car, which was all smashed in the front, including the windshield. He was pulled over to the side of the road with a phone in his ear, no doubt calling his wife and AAA. And there was the deer, lying in the middle of the street behind a traffic light pole, more cars ambling past on either side of it, an obscenity, an indecency far more shocking than any nipple popping out during a concert or a curse word let slip on a morning talk show.
From the appearance of things, it didn't seem that mankind had accepted the gift this time around. We made sure to mete out the punishment ourselves as well, not trusting the gods to do so properly anymore.
But we must embrace that gift. Bathe in its purity from time to time and then carry around its residual glow. Hold at least some small portion of it until we can make our way back to such a moment again.
The alternative is a life of this:
Fleeing through dark tunnels,
Underground we make our way.
Vaguely smelling of a hard day’s work,
Our car sways and whines under our weight.
Brakes scream the story we dare not
Tell ourselves, lest we frighten the children.
We try too hard to avoid eye contact,
And instead tell ourselves stories of home.
Lovers waiting, children playing, tails wagging,
Comforts of couches and dinners and sleep.
Make tomorrow another day, please.
Not like the one that came before.
How long until home?
I make my way underground.
That is a poem I wrote about a year and a half ago that was published in Adbusters magazine, Issue #78 (July/August 2008) and which can be found on the third page if you start counting from the inside cover. The object of all this is well summed up by a quote from Thomas Merton that is found near the back of that issue:
The greatest need of our time is to clean out the enormous mass of mental and emotional rubbish that clutters our minds and makes all political and social life a mass illness. Without this housecleaning we cannot begin to see. Unless we can see, we cannot think.
And he died in 1968, never knowing about cell phones, texting, Facebook, Myspace or Twitter. Skip ahead just a short bit to 1976 (still in an age without all those things) and one of the greatest movies of all time, Network, and we have Max, an old news man, breaking off his affair with Diana, a young television producer:
Max Schumacher: You need me. You need me badly. Because I'm your last contact with human reality. I love you. And that painful, decaying love is the only thing between you and the shrieking nothingness you live the rest of the day.
Diana Christensen: [hesitatingly] Then, don't leave me.
Max Schumacher: It's too late, Diana. There's nothing left in you that I can live with. You're one of Howard's humanoids. If I stay with you, I'll be destroyed. Like Howard Beale was destroyed. Like Laureen Hobbs was destroyed. Like everything you and the institution of television touch is destroyed. You're television incarnate, Diana: Indifferent to suffering; insensitive to joy. All of life is reduced to the common rubble of banality. War, murder, death are all the same to you as bottles of beer. And the daily business of life is a corrupt comedy. You even shatter the sensations of time and space into split seconds and instant replays. You're madness, Diana. Virulent madness. And everything you touch dies with you. But not me. Not as long as I can feel pleasure, and pain... and love.
"Diana" is now in her fifties and probably looks upon us (my fellow under-30's) in much the same way Max once looked at her; from across an unfathomable gulf between meaning (diluted as it is in her) and madness. Not that she has improved at all, just that we've gotten so much worse. We have a lot to overcome, but it is not impossible.
The Bus Stop
Note: I wrote this last night (Thursday 9/24/09 for the record) and I'm not quite sure what to make of it yet. It feels like poetry, even though it is in prose form. That ambiguity intrigues me.
As I stand at the bus stop, waiting to complete my journey home from work, having already walked nearly a mile, I can’t help but become acutely and intensely aware of the bustle that swirls around me. Night after night, I see the people swish past, some arm-in-arm and some alone, the latter often with headphones stuck in their ears. Some of them even have hands dedicated to texting, between skipping songs they’re not in the mood for and other ones they’re not even sure why they ever downloaded, while they walk and try to keep half an eye on the way forward. I hear snippets of their conversations with each other or to people on the other ends of phones. The ones speaking on headsets appear to be insane at first, of course. Cars trundle past on their way to everywhere, weaving around the buses that loudly proclaim their adherence to their set route and schedule. Bicyclists dart here and there, their flashing red lights blinking away under the constant gaze of street lamps and headlights.
And I am there standing still. An observer of so much, I can forget that; that I am really there, inhabiting a body that can interact with what is before me. It reminds me how disconnected I am, how apart from so much of this society I stand. It is almost as if a metaphor I once imagined was brought to life. There is a bittersweet sadness; a primal longing to belong that inevitably rises up in these moments. But there is also a peace; a kind of warmth that settles over everything inside me. It is not truly loneliness that animates me at the bus stop, though the feeling is similar, but a sort of sadness that the world has placed us all where we are and that we all stand apart, even the ones who are walking together, so close they can whisper and hear without being overheard. At those moments I feel that I could be standing with someone who has known me all my life and still be alone.
But there is so much beauty there, too. The way the thin branches of a dead tree encircle the stars when I look up; the rotting boughs still stretch forth with elegant determination, powerful even in death. The dissonant strains of music from car stereos mix with the cacophony of rumbling engines, the occasional horns and myriad human conversation to form a song of pulsing life that would make John Cage smile and tap his foot to the nonexistent beat. And, on second thought, maybe that couple is sharing a true moment of love as they move on out of sight. Maybe they are not so far apart as they first appeared. Maybe it is possible to experience true moments these days; maybe this is one. And the inner warmth grows. And sometimes it makes me smile. Does any passerby, reflecting my position and observing me, have an inkling of why? Do they feel it, too?
As I stand at the bus stop, waiting to complete my journey home from work, having already walked nearly a mile, I can’t help but become acutely and intensely aware of the bustle that swirls around me. Night after night, I see the people swish past, some arm-in-arm and some alone, the latter often with headphones stuck in their ears. Some of them even have hands dedicated to texting, between skipping songs they’re not in the mood for and other ones they’re not even sure why they ever downloaded, while they walk and try to keep half an eye on the way forward. I hear snippets of their conversations with each other or to people on the other ends of phones. The ones speaking on headsets appear to be insane at first, of course. Cars trundle past on their way to everywhere, weaving around the buses that loudly proclaim their adherence to their set route and schedule. Bicyclists dart here and there, their flashing red lights blinking away under the constant gaze of street lamps and headlights.
And I am there standing still. An observer of so much, I can forget that; that I am really there, inhabiting a body that can interact with what is before me. It reminds me how disconnected I am, how apart from so much of this society I stand. It is almost as if a metaphor I once imagined was brought to life. There is a bittersweet sadness; a primal longing to belong that inevitably rises up in these moments. But there is also a peace; a kind of warmth that settles over everything inside me. It is not truly loneliness that animates me at the bus stop, though the feeling is similar, but a sort of sadness that the world has placed us all where we are and that we all stand apart, even the ones who are walking together, so close they can whisper and hear without being overheard. At those moments I feel that I could be standing with someone who has known me all my life and still be alone.
But there is so much beauty there, too. The way the thin branches of a dead tree encircle the stars when I look up; the rotting boughs still stretch forth with elegant determination, powerful even in death. The dissonant strains of music from car stereos mix with the cacophony of rumbling engines, the occasional horns and myriad human conversation to form a song of pulsing life that would make John Cage smile and tap his foot to the nonexistent beat. And, on second thought, maybe that couple is sharing a true moment of love as they move on out of sight. Maybe they are not so far apart as they first appeared. Maybe it is possible to experience true moments these days; maybe this is one. And the inner warmth grows. And sometimes it makes me smile. Does any passerby, reflecting my position and observing me, have an inkling of why? Do they feel it, too?
Monday, June 29, 2009
Laws of Motion
There are several minutes left.
I see the tall grass,
Waving in the breeze along the highway,
And all I can think of is her hair,
Gently flowing through my fingers
As she lay by my side.
The moonlight flooding our bed.
My love. My wife.
I see the date trees,
And the only image in my mind is of my daughter as a young child,
Offering me the seed in her little palm.
Done with the fruit, she thought I would want the remains.
“Here, Daddy!”
We laughed about that for years,
Even when she went to university.
She was my greatest joy.
I hear the birds,
And my mother is with me again,
Whispering that you can hear God in their singing,
If only you listen closely.
And that is why I am here. I can’t forget.
I used to have love and friendship in my heart.
Now all that remains is grief and hatred.
I used to have faith in God and goodness.
Now I know only loss and a pain that will not fade.
There can be no God.
There can be no God when that day was just another day.
When the world can still go on.
Just another day.
Just another day when they took my mother to the hospital.
Just another day that I couldn’t go with them, out trying to get work.
Just another day with nervous Americans at the checkpoint.
Just another Arab woman confused by their gestures and shouts.
Just another car they filled with bullets,
And just another slow crawl at the bottom of their news screen:
“Baghdad gun battle leaves 3 Iraqi civilians dead…”
There is no God, but there is physics.
Every action must have an equal and opposite reaction.
I was an engineer before the war, I know how this works.
In an instant all of my pain disappears forever,
And is transferred to the Americans.
So now I see it in my rearview mirror.
The convoy is slowly getting closer.
I am not afraid of death. Not now.
I long for it.
It is the only thing that can save me.
The jihadis thought that I was calm because of my faith.
They exclaimed, “Omar, God will welcome you to Heaven very soon! Be glad!”
They don’t know that I don’t believe it.
I had to play the part otherwise they might not have let me go.
They need holy martyrs.
I only need to get close to that Hum Vee.
And here they are, arrogantly pushing everyone over to the side of the road,
The soldier on top pointing his machine gun everywhere.
I’m driving slowly and quickly they approach on my left.
I want to look them in the eyes,
So I hesitate for just a moment.
The soldier in front is an Arab-American.
We make eye contact and I can see a rush of fear;
He must see the resolve in my eyes…or the detonator in my hand.
He begins to shout, but it is only a second that I have waited.
In my last moment, I wonder if he is praying to God to save him.
That will not work.
God is not there to hear.
We will not meet again in Heaven.
It is over.
Now.
I see the tall grass,
Waving in the breeze along the highway,
And all I can think of is her hair,
Gently flowing through my fingers
As she lay by my side.
The moonlight flooding our bed.
My love. My wife.
I see the date trees,
And the only image in my mind is of my daughter as a young child,
Offering me the seed in her little palm.
Done with the fruit, she thought I would want the remains.
“Here, Daddy!”
We laughed about that for years,
Even when she went to university.
She was my greatest joy.
I hear the birds,
And my mother is with me again,
Whispering that you can hear God in their singing,
If only you listen closely.
And that is why I am here. I can’t forget.
I used to have love and friendship in my heart.
Now all that remains is grief and hatred.
I used to have faith in God and goodness.
Now I know only loss and a pain that will not fade.
There can be no God.
There can be no God when that day was just another day.
When the world can still go on.
Just another day.
Just another day when they took my mother to the hospital.
Just another day that I couldn’t go with them, out trying to get work.
Just another day with nervous Americans at the checkpoint.
Just another Arab woman confused by their gestures and shouts.
Just another car they filled with bullets,
And just another slow crawl at the bottom of their news screen:
“Baghdad gun battle leaves 3 Iraqi civilians dead…”
There is no God, but there is physics.
Every action must have an equal and opposite reaction.
I was an engineer before the war, I know how this works.
In an instant all of my pain disappears forever,
And is transferred to the Americans.
So now I see it in my rearview mirror.
The convoy is slowly getting closer.
I am not afraid of death. Not now.
I long for it.
It is the only thing that can save me.
The jihadis thought that I was calm because of my faith.
They exclaimed, “Omar, God will welcome you to Heaven very soon! Be glad!”
They don’t know that I don’t believe it.
I had to play the part otherwise they might not have let me go.
They need holy martyrs.
I only need to get close to that Hum Vee.
And here they are, arrogantly pushing everyone over to the side of the road,
The soldier on top pointing his machine gun everywhere.
I’m driving slowly and quickly they approach on my left.
I want to look them in the eyes,
So I hesitate for just a moment.
The soldier in front is an Arab-American.
We make eye contact and I can see a rush of fear;
He must see the resolve in my eyes…or the detonator in my hand.
He begins to shout, but it is only a second that I have waited.
In my last moment, I wonder if he is praying to God to save him.
That will not work.
God is not there to hear.
We will not meet again in Heaven.
It is over.
Now.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
"Peace Train" derailed by hail of bullets in Baghdad
Okay, I know this is pretty old, but I think it is really remarkable and deserves to be shared. This story is from Nabil's Blog, written by an Iraqi who is now exiled in Jordan. He hasn't posted in a few months, but it really is a great blog and I used to read it very regularly. I originally found out about him through a BBC story a few years ago that featured a series of talented Iraqi bloggers.
In this post from April 7, 2007 Nabil writes about an incident that he thinks is funny, but admits that we may find disturbing. Living in Baghdad at the time, he was sitting in his room, playing guitar (he's pretty damn good; check out the link on his blog to his recorded songs) and trying to put together a recording of the Cat Stevens song "Peace Train."
With his home suddenly a war zone, Nabil hastily turned off the recording before moving further away from the window to avoid getting hit by stray bullets and marveled at the irony of what had just happened.
This is a direct link to the audio file he recorded.
I think it is important that small incidents like this (as well as the huge massacres and atrocities) are not forgotten as we withdraw a significant portion of our troops and the American public moves on from thinking about Iraq. It is our responsibility for what happened there and the blood and tears of millions will always be on our hands. If we can remember this, I believe that it may help in some small way to prevent us from launching another brutal, unnecessary war someday. I can only hope.
In this post from April 7, 2007 Nabil writes about an incident that he thinks is funny, but admits that we may find disturbing. Living in Baghdad at the time, he was sitting in his room, playing guitar (he's pretty damn good; check out the link on his blog to his recorded songs) and trying to put together a recording of the Cat Stevens song "Peace Train."
[A]nd after about 30 seconds on starting the song, when reaching the first line in the song, which was "Now I've been happy lately," a random bullet entered my room, crashed the window and broke all the glass and a heavy shooting then took place in the street.
With his home suddenly a war zone, Nabil hastily turned off the recording before moving further away from the window to avoid getting hit by stray bullets and marveled at the irony of what had just happened.
It's like no one should be happy in this country, because if you say that you're happy, a bullet will come and smash your head right away.
This is a direct link to the audio file he recorded.
I think it is important that small incidents like this (as well as the huge massacres and atrocities) are not forgotten as we withdraw a significant portion of our troops and the American public moves on from thinking about Iraq. It is our responsibility for what happened there and the blood and tears of millions will always be on our hands. If we can remember this, I believe that it may help in some small way to prevent us from launching another brutal, unnecessary war someday. I can only hope.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
To Market
A short preface to this poem is in order, I believe. The main character, if you will, is a widowed, young Iraqi mother living in Baghdad during the worst violence of the civil war and occupation. It is about the horror she faces on a normal trip to the local outdoor market. She is just trying to get food and other necessary goods for herself and her children, but a suicide bomber packed among the civilians sows chaos soon after she arrives.
While atrocities like this do not happen as often now as they did in past years, they do still occur. There is a kind of low-level violence that can be compared directly to the 15 year civil war in Lebanon in terms of lethality. Iraq is still a terribly violent place by world historical standards, but things are not nearly as bad as they were a couple of years ago.
This relative calm has mainly settled in because ethnic cleansing has been almost completely achieved, most importantly in Baghdad, but also throughout Iraq. The different sects are separated into fortified neighborhoods, many in Baghdad surrounded by high blast walls. The US has also successfully bribed many Sunni tribal leaders (known as the Sons of Iraq or the Sunni Awakening Councils) into supporting American efforts against al-Qaeda in Iraq, which has reduced the suicide bombings - al-Qaeda's favored tactic for stoking the fires of sectarian violence.
How much longer the Sons of Iraq continue to fight against other Sunnis and not against the US or, most importantly, the Shiite-dominated Iraqi government, remains to be seen. The US or the Iraqi government must continue to pay them until and unless they are given some kind of legitimate role in the government, which the Shiite leaders are very reluctant to do. The provincial elections at the end of this month will be the first elections the Sunnis participate in en masse and will result in new power dynamics, possibly undermining al-Maliki's legitimacy if his coalition does poorly.
Really, the armed factions (a.k.a. everybody - every political group must have a militia [or an army] to survive in Iraq) are just waiting for the US to leave so that things can really be settled and the true power of each group can be determined. The longer the US stays, the longer this is put off, but it has to happen eventually. The only question is whether it will happen relatively peacefully (through the rise and fall of coalitions and other political wrangling), or whether the resulting violence will make 2006 look like a good year for the ordinary Iraqi.
Without further ado, here is the poem.
Feet swift,
Head down,
Fists balled,
Eyes averted,
Teeth grinding,
I walk to the market.
My family must eat.
Not harassed today,
I wore the proper garb,
And moved quickly,
But not too quickly.
Took the right route,
Crossed the right streets,
Whispered my prayers,
And made it to the square,
So that my family may eat.
Among the other women,
Among the children,
Among the old men,
Among the animals,
I weave and bargain,
Carrying the things that,
Will allow my family to eat.
My hand extends out,
I am trying to pay,
But there is a roar,
For just a brief moment,
And now I am deaf,
Except for a ringing;
Mosquitoes in my ears,
As I am jerked through space.
The world is in chaos,
As the brief moment expands.
My feet can find no ground,
My eyes can make no sense,
My body is in no pain,
Until I suddenly stop,
Grasping in vain for what I held.
Now I can feel the piercing wounds,
Now I see the carnage-strewn ground,
And the bodies I lie among, but smoke burns my eyes.
Now I can hear only faintly, muffled,
Screams wafting in through great walls,
Of stone and cries miles away, but pain wracks my head.
I am crumpled and I can taste the blood,
Pooling in my mouth.
A boy crouches over me,
Fiercely searching my eyes.
He sees I am not his mother,
And so he hurries away,
To turn over corpses.
One consolation I now have:
That I will not live for years,
To be haunted by the child’s face.
Though, I am left with one thought,
That contains horror to match his:
Now how will my family eat?
While atrocities like this do not happen as often now as they did in past years, they do still occur. There is a kind of low-level violence that can be compared directly to the 15 year civil war in Lebanon in terms of lethality. Iraq is still a terribly violent place by world historical standards, but things are not nearly as bad as they were a couple of years ago.
This relative calm has mainly settled in because ethnic cleansing has been almost completely achieved, most importantly in Baghdad, but also throughout Iraq. The different sects are separated into fortified neighborhoods, many in Baghdad surrounded by high blast walls. The US has also successfully bribed many Sunni tribal leaders (known as the Sons of Iraq or the Sunni Awakening Councils) into supporting American efforts against al-Qaeda in Iraq, which has reduced the suicide bombings - al-Qaeda's favored tactic for stoking the fires of sectarian violence.
How much longer the Sons of Iraq continue to fight against other Sunnis and not against the US or, most importantly, the Shiite-dominated Iraqi government, remains to be seen. The US or the Iraqi government must continue to pay them until and unless they are given some kind of legitimate role in the government, which the Shiite leaders are very reluctant to do. The provincial elections at the end of this month will be the first elections the Sunnis participate in en masse and will result in new power dynamics, possibly undermining al-Maliki's legitimacy if his coalition does poorly.
Really, the armed factions (a.k.a. everybody - every political group must have a militia [or an army] to survive in Iraq) are just waiting for the US to leave so that things can really be settled and the true power of each group can be determined. The longer the US stays, the longer this is put off, but it has to happen eventually. The only question is whether it will happen relatively peacefully (through the rise and fall of coalitions and other political wrangling), or whether the resulting violence will make 2006 look like a good year for the ordinary Iraqi.
Without further ado, here is the poem.
Feet swift,
Head down,
Fists balled,
Eyes averted,
Teeth grinding,
I walk to the market.
My family must eat.
Not harassed today,
I wore the proper garb,
And moved quickly,
But not too quickly.
Took the right route,
Crossed the right streets,
Whispered my prayers,
And made it to the square,
So that my family may eat.
Among the other women,
Among the children,
Among the old men,
Among the animals,
I weave and bargain,
Carrying the things that,
Will allow my family to eat.
My hand extends out,
I am trying to pay,
But there is a roar,
For just a brief moment,
And now I am deaf,
Except for a ringing;
Mosquitoes in my ears,
As I am jerked through space.
The world is in chaos,
As the brief moment expands.
My feet can find no ground,
My eyes can make no sense,
My body is in no pain,
Until I suddenly stop,
Grasping in vain for what I held.
Now I can feel the piercing wounds,
Now I see the carnage-strewn ground,
And the bodies I lie among, but smoke burns my eyes.
Now I can hear only faintly, muffled,
Screams wafting in through great walls,
Of stone and cries miles away, but pain wracks my head.
I am crumpled and I can taste the blood,
Pooling in my mouth.
A boy crouches over me,
Fiercely searching my eyes.
He sees I am not his mother,
And so he hurries away,
To turn over corpses.
One consolation I now have:
That I will not live for years,
To be haunted by the child’s face.
Though, I am left with one thought,
That contains horror to match his:
Now how will my family eat?
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