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Breathing With Panic



Shaving Kit Fits In Wallet
Dense and rigid, reminds me of Mankind and his thinking. Soon we’ll be able to squeeze war inside, between the rape and greed, in front of love and joy, behind hate and cruelty.

What an invention, war…

Roman Shipwreck Full of Wine Jars Found
Their medicine, drained of time, drunk with power, dead from misuse. Rome, then, did burn, wine, its mortal elixir.

U.S. residents, military ships move out of Hurricane Irene's path
To see the shores breathing with panic depends upon which particular shoreline we trudge as our winked eyes witness her gaping tears flooding our use with the broken dam of love.

We’re sorrowful and buoyant for another minute of joy to brush up against our garments, but the stench of melted plastic has us spellbound, like persistent war, famine, and thirst.

Irene’s the latest caution. Her nod, our loss. We stand slack jawed, soiled, terrified, waiting for what moment she’ll greet us with mourning, howling down upon her wayward children.

It doesn’t have to be this way, you know? It’s not a game, a movie, a song, or a book. She’s real, and we couldn't rape her quietly enough, someone or something has noticed her suffering.

Who or what will come to rescue the rapists?


© 2011 by mark prime
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