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Fort Knox

Fort Knox
While he was training,
She did unprepared.
Raising the little girl,
Visiting when she could.

300 miles in Caprice
The car overheated.
Rolling into a pitstop
Of just a single pump.

Sipping coke, waiting
With a three-year-old,
for the Hillman to fix
A broken water hose.

There wasn’t enough,
The check’d bounce,
No, they’d eat later.
Will you go to sleep?

The girl kept talking,
And worse, noticing.
A pack of cigarettes,
Six hours left to go.

Arriving at Ft Knox,
There was no gold,
But a sea of green,
Gems in geodes.

“You want to know
What mother did?”
Only if she wants
To tell, Nana said.

The girl dismissed,
Another secret safe,
And the transmission
Was the only neutral.

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The Warhorse


Through the window, at a distance, I saw him today
As he meandered aimlessly in fields of weeds and clover —
Moving as one unsure of what would happen next,
Unsure if the danger of battle was truly over.

He bore the scars of a life lived- hard and full and well,
As only can be found in draft animals in service to the state;
Taught by unforgiving moments to think and plan for the worst
While carrying upon his sagging back the burdens of duty and chaos and fate.

When the thunder comes, the warhorse must run to the sound of the guns,
Remaining stalwart in the pell-mell charge of animals and men against fire;
Despite fear and fury, if the animal-instrument fails in battle just once
Then comes the flailing upon flanks and withers scarred by national ire.

Today the destrier, once a fine sleek stallion, now worn and old,
Gelded by the chaffing of time and burden, finding his days of service through;
And must create a new life and status in the field or the range or the stable,
Else the groom decide the warhorse worthless, short of factory and glue.

I catch my breath and realize —
No image through glass pane I see;
But reflections in a silvered mirror,
For that old warhorse is me.

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Under Pressure

Under Pressure

Running away,

Hiding in squares,

Churches, attics,

Cemetery, trunks,

The crawl spaces

Under the stairs.

Lungs burning,

Electrocuted,

Pressure boiling

Like kettled air,

Forced through

Narrow confines.

The wheezing,

Sharp whistle of

Ghosts escaping

Seeping sucking

Chest wounds.

Gases expelled,

Corpses return,

Of pleural space

to Earth and sky.

Pews, headstones,

Boxes and rooms.

Heart chambers.

But round flesh

Cannot conform

To hard corners,

The rigid edges,

Or square spaces

Of men we love.

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The Meaning of Words

The SDF who fought ISIL,
Are now called terrorists.
State news said “neutralized”
When 300 Kurds massacred.

A bloody military invasion
Is “establishing a safe zone.”
14 Kurdish cities- “liberated”-
Are now under foreign rule.

Turkey’s nemesis in Pakistan
Offers Erdogan his “full support.”
NATO urges Turkish “restraint”
The Arab League urges the UN.

The EU cries refugee “blackmail,”
But 6B euros to keep them out.
DoS hasn’t seen “significant”
Examples of ethnic cleansing.

Doctors without borders, fled.
100,000 civilians “displaced”
To join the already 700,000
Requiring food aid in N. Syria.

Operation Peace Spring
Is a bottomless well of war.
Because there is no meaning
Left in the words of men.

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Appropriate

In the American Capital,
The committee passed
The appropriations bill.

In the desert city,
The embassy leased
Homes for soldiers.

In the commissary,
Shelf-stable milk drops,
Monthly, from Ramstein.

The embassy badges
Camels, and says
Do not smoke.

The embassy advises
Don’t give to beggars
During Ramadan.

The embassy diverts
West Bank water
To the US tanks.

On the rooftops,
You can see Israel, and
The Bedouin coming.

On the off chance,
The E4 gives candy,
Coins are exchanged.

On the patio, scorpions
Dash between the figs
Mad, sticky with bees.

On the floor, the baby
Can’t say her name- Lilia,
So he calls her Yaya.

And Yaya cares for him.
While someone else
Cares for her kids abroad.

And she cleans the house
The E4 could never afford,
Where no one belongs.

And not one of them,
Has time to question
What is appropriate.