BUFFALO: New Roman Eyes

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BUFFALO: New Roman Eyes

War. War. War. 
War. War.... 
Ad infinitum, 
so sayeth the Romans, 
and the Christians who escaped the lions, 
and the Jews who escaped the Christians, 
and a few Moslems who twisted their desire 
for virgins into wringing blood 
out of yet another 
misappropriated holy book. 

BUFFALO: New Roman Eyes

If only war were like a comet, 
passing us by with a near miss 
once every several centuries. 
The high priests drinking blood, 
sipping from every holy sacrifice, 
raising simple death 
into something exceptional. 
When will the dying reject 
the moment of demise planned for them? 

The cheering crowds in devil masks, 
wearing skeletons covered in sweet, false flowers, 
tossing bouquets like hand grenades, 
cheers of rotten meat on breaths 
that should stop along with lying hearts. 
Families waiting behind for 
those they have sent 
to test their courage someplace else 
than in a world to be overthrown. 
History transformed by those 
who have witnessed, too many times, 
everything that has been stolen. 

What do we remember on Memorial Day? 
Do we remember everything which left us 
without pleasure and short of breath? 
Leaning into the darkness, 
embracing what we could not see, 
because our only choice was that 
or a loss of faith, a loneliness 
carried to the ends of the earth, 
to the last step before we plunge 
into that nothingness relieved by stars, 
the glass of what might be 
which was there 
at the final moment before birth, 
just before the first inhaling, 
there again just before breathing out 
one last time, staring at the final heartbeat 
as though the sun were red and still 
one last time before the beginning 
of whatever else we need to know.