Weapons of Mass

Weapons of Mass

Inhale sunlight this tired
mourning, the body
of our Presidents'
afternoon is
on the news, some
early Christian song
to greet the rising Son
and his soldiers
of fortune,
aloof in their
desert adventures.

Green child, red cake
arms: all head lines
and pixilation
disintigrating
in the camera touch
of your death.

A gun under your left eye,
your head rejected backwards
in remnants on your father's
body: all to your
sister's flesh,
raped and wounded
and bound in fire.

A voice rises muffled
in imitation
of the geiger
counter
measuring
topographical hate,
commercial breaks,
and rain delays.

The voice lowers,
escapes, and
stomachs the inhumane
of our American
cousins.

Mark Brunke

Posted over on Poets Against The War