Scores dead in Mumbai train bombs More than 160 people have been killed and 460 injured by seven bombs on the train network in the Indian financial capital Mumbai (Bombay), police say. Across the street from the Mumbai Western Railway, the station was scattered with fractured love, with shredded hope of cleaved flowers, dead mice, angry servants; things we could kill with our own bombs or hands or fear, given time. Children waiting, mothers, fathers- transient- passing- gone. Waiting. Hungry; hungry for work or worship… whichever came first, but not death blasting its marked solitude of splintered joy in moist fragrance, pierced skin the color of kings wrapped in flags. Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Showing posts from July 9, 2006
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Man (and his sheep) face off against Humanity... (Lucas.Hardi.org ) (VOICEOVER, an eight-thousand year old woman, enters center stage. NARRATOR and SIDEKICK, an average sized pair of fools, come bumbling along after.) VOICEOVER: Man, His Sheep and Humanity are bathing in the blood of the shuddering people. Man’s kinship is breathing near the heart of truth, it is panting, eager and trembling near the stone that weighs down love. Quell their rage, said the wind. Ready them for an infuriated ocean, said the rain. Steady quaking limbs ahead of death, said the forest. Pray with our loftiness for man’s love, said the stars. Our instruction’s come too late, said the dust. NARRATOR: I'm not so sure about all of that, but I am the narrator of the play you’re witnessing unfold before you. Try not to confuse me with voiceover . Voiceover is purely a directional component to keep the action flowing, nothing more and nothing less. VOICEOVER: Narrator is the curmudgeonly type; n
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Once upon a time in America, a father gave a gift to his young boy. The child had hoped for a gun, instead it was a globe. “What is it, Daddy?” the boy asked? “It is the world, my son.” The boy sat on the floor spinning it `round and `round, watching as the oceans and land blurred into one. Soon the boy grew tired of spinning his new gift and asked, “Where is America, Daddy?” “There is America.” he did say. “What about Vietnam, Daddy?” “There will be plenty of time for learning, now go outside and play.” Time began to pass by quickly and with each passing year the boy would ask his father, “Where is Vietnam, Daddy?” and each time the father would say, “There will be plenty of time for learning. Now go outside and play.” Then time lunged forth so fast that the boy was a soldier heading for a war in Iraq. He stood now before his own young son, “This is what my Daddy gave me when I had just turned five.” “What is it?” “It is the world, my son.” “Where is America, Daddy?