Brutus

Tick-tock this greed this air we breathe how now brown cow the AIDS disease the simple truth deceit and fears as empires crumble shame no tears big-bang our turn one power corruption ten million children dead who’s suffering? Mother Nature crime pollution the forest’s gone bad-debt solution? precious, precious, precious war they’re burning books time’s up no more: the need to know your ABC an outstretched hand (no dignity) money markets prostitution sweat shop children evolution big bad wolf the taste of water one, two, three worlds human slaughter.

by David Jordan


A Call to the Old Marine

A Call to the Old Marine By John Kaniecki Seventeen Full of rage Lied about his age As he signed the page Became a marine Same story as before Yet another war To kill and die For a lie When your naïve Many lies you’ll believe So he went through hell And served his country well? But there comes a time When we cannot be oblivious to the crime How we are manipulated By war profiteers Who tell us who must be hated Exploiting our fears Stand up, man, be brave You have America to save As a youth You fought for the truth You’ve seen this act before Stand up once more Do not let them deceive And make us grieve In more war

by John Kaniecki


POW

POW I look him over and almost want to cry. Yet another of their adolescent “soldiers.” Undernourished body, filthy, lice-ridden hair—teeth a good pediatric dentist would consider a challenge to restructure. Age? Our interpreter says, “thirteen.” I light a Marlboro, relax, inhale the fumes and as my cigarette drifts towards him, trailing ash and smoke, suddenly he’s terrified, convinced that tortures older men described at the hands of a former enemy are about to begin. He tries to be a soldier, grits his teeth, shuts his eyes—and when I rise to disabuse him multiplies into roomfuls of helpless children cowering before strenuous lights that can streak across a desert sky in minutes, think their way over tv cable or miles of empty sand, searching for something of value. “It’s okay,” I assure him, as I stub my butt in the tray, and lay my hand on his shoulder, “That is not our way.” “You have been captured by americans. You will be treated as a prisoner of war in accord with Geneva conventions. After you’ve showered and been deloused and answered a few dozen questions we will give you medical attention... treat those open sores... monitor your blood and urine. There will be therapy, Levi clothes, mineral water, coca cola, videos, freedom to worship allah, Metallica, or Christ, and hi-tech food. Watch out. The plate is hot.”

by David Alpaugh