Art, Music Poetry 8

Opus #1  Stockbridge MA, 1978

Opus #1 Stockbridge MA, 1978


Choppers, loud, descend toward lantern-lit roof,
find a technical college student studying chemistry by
flickering light, gun by his side, now pulled up, now
riddled mercilessly, body collapses. He had just spoken
about the uncertainty of life in Baghdad, had chuckled
nervously about no food, no electricity, no peace, no way
to sneak to school without risking death. His machine gun
got him killed. Not a militiaman, nor fundamentalist, nor
Baathist, nor anyone who killed, still, he was on a roof
in Baghdad. Imagine – twenty flickering years, 1986-2006:
born during the Iran War, five for Desert Storm, but strong
enough to survive radiation-coated bombs, sanctions,
befouled Tigress, Euphrates, a sewer. Dead now, just as true
love emerged, up from ashes, against customs, past pressures
of overbearing religion, only to be squelched from above: The
Creator as “Deus-Ex-Machine-Gun-Us.” Surely heaven awaits.


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