A helicopter pilot smiles.
The shortest break from break-neck speed.
Canteens fly in the hands of the thirsty
as money trades hands from pig to pig.

We feel the pain as he stares at his rifle.
He thinks to himself,
soon we'll be reduced to arrows and rocks,
and if this took place
would I want a boulder,
or a pebble?

My newborn daughters picture
rests in my left breast pocket.
I keep her protected behind
my kevlar vest.

As the shrapnel flies
I think of her deeply.

Why can I see death
and not my daughter?

What has become of my wife?
No really,
what of my wife?

As
the
blood pours
from
my larynx

I'm reminded
of
a
story.

One where
boy
becomes a
man
and
tries
to
take
over the
land.

THE FATE OF OUR BANK ACCOUNTS
LIES IN THE HANDS OF DEATH TOLL PERCENTAGES!

If you think I'm lost in space
Then I'll stop screaming anarchy.

However,since reform is not the norm
I'll grab my rock and off I go.

10/23/2007