CONFESSION ZERO

One life. One skull. One bone. One moment. Human remains… nothing to you, another collateral shard, political gain, fragment of meaningless life spiraling underground beneath the weight of thousands. Raise thy fetid memorial, bury the unburied. Appearances… soiled callousness, numb sanctimony of one. What if it were two or twenty? Would the dark machines pause? Bow their heads, bent in mechanical prayer? Rewind the tape, see a flash, a passport, a bomb, a gun, a skull, a bone, a soul sealed deep down, down, down, dead, again. Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman 'No building halt' at Ground Zero

Dead in the noisy church, in the universe of God, everyone's departed. Down into the impartial ground old Christian men, women, dry- dried up bones left low in the world, empty souled dust and deceit writhing now evermore. Hush! Not a pious sound! Dead in the noisy worship, in the universe of God, everyone's deceased. Twisting expressions, scornful mouths, shush thy hastening there along the pew, under the baptism’s ocean, the green grin of tooth-filled trickery under plush dresses, pink skirts and flowery hats, the posh suits, ties and gold and bursting coffers and thy organ’s droning hell coiled to serpent’s tongue, hush thy kowtowing mouths! Hush! Dead in the noisy church, in the universe of God, everyone's departed. Lifeless in the cathedral, rotting in the hymnals, the congregational affirmations, reverend, monk, priest and preacher calling out to thy listless sinnings and the lick of flaming damnation. Hush now! Hush now! Hush now! Shush thy mouths and k...

It needn’t conquer the world to breathe in us, wept the paint. It needn’t strike the stiff and crafty strum of a tyrant’s impatience, mourned the brush. It must turn its very foundation, humanity, to free its fettered soul, wailed the easel. It first must conquer the self to invent an escape above war’s red casualty, moaned the canvas. Peace will never be created through war's shrapnel upon the scorching sand, shrieked the art! No more war... No more war... No more war... No more war... No more war... No more war... Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman U.S. Department of Peace

A play on torture... As the audience files in they see on the stage a dungeon-like cell in the shadows center stage, seemingly underground. There is a stone wall center and one wooden chair to the left. A human shackle device is mounted upon the wall; two hand shackles with chains and two foot shackles with chains. House lights fade followed by the dim light on the stage. Sounds of bombs and gunfire are heard in the distance. Soon the lights rise on the dungeon and we see a AZHAR, age fourteen, hanging limply from the wall. Blood and torture marks cover his near naked body. His underwear is all that covers him. This sight for a long moment as the bombs and gunfire continue echoing from afar. After a good moment of this the gunfire and bombs fade down nearly undetectable and AZHAR suddenly jerks and raises his head. He pulls on the chains and winces from the pain. Open the play [+/-] AZHAR: I am not a terrorist. I am not a suicide bomber. "He who commits suicide by throt...

Above the casement he sits, the moon, sweltering in the boiling night. Wafting, his breath slogs through the houses, a music so sad, so awkward, that even the wolves shrink back in silence. A little girl stands naked in the street as a dog slowly lifts its rabid eyes and two cats screech and hiss in the alley, three men stumble to the broken curb and the moon shrieks overhead. The people come out on the street and begin talking. “Why’s the moon so low with screeching music?” “Why’s the moon making a noise at all?” “The world’s terror causes him pain.” “It’s a sign of global warming.” The people, now listless, return to their homes and the three men stumble away, the cats run screaming down a barren street, and the dog stares upon the naked girl who motions for it to come. Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

Two traitors in a jail cell. You know it can't end well... (The lights rise on stage. We see KARL lying on one of two cots in a jail cell. He glares at GEORGE who stands next to the other cot holding a newspaper.) Open the play [+/-] GEORGE: Did ya see the paper, Karl? I made th' front page! Not quite sure what to make o' this picture of me, though? Looks kind o’ weird. Like my head’s bigger `n my body `n I’m wearin’ curlers in my hair? Why would they put curlers in my hair, Karl? They insinuatin’ somethin’? Hell! That’s defacamation- `r defamicatin’ `r somethin’ `r other… Ain’t it, Karl? (GEORGE saunters around the cell.) Looky here? They got my whole speech to my country on page two. Wow. Who’d a thunk it? My speech. The only one I wrote and it gets published. I knew I could do it, knew I had the talent `n all, but they always told me I should let the writers do it for me. You even told me that, Karl. A lot... I guess I never thought about it. Ya know? Not `til I ...

Western policy is in near despair over Darfur, and governments are turning to Russia and China to see if they can put pressure on the Sudanese government to accept a UN peacekeeping force. "There is a critical period now when the whole international community has to use its influence on Sudan," the British Minister for Africa Lord Triesman told reporters . The plains are quiet under the forlorn Sudan The people wilt like flowers planted beneath the sand From rape and murder and starvation Of unfed mouths Unfed hope Love Care Humanity Consumed by the Janjaweed Ravaged by the Baggara Descendents of grand tribes Lost  And moving  Down Roving the sands And hopeless sun Stopping only to Plant gardens  Down Push the black seed Down Into the empty guts Of Darfur  Down Again Darfur  Down The hunters raid The rapists thieve The murderers slay Lacerating fatality Down Upon the child’s teeth Down Upo...