CONFESSION ZERO

An American military widow talks to her husband... As the audience files in they see a single flower growing out of center stage underneath a soft spotlight. It is a magnificent yellow sunflower rising up to greet the afternoon sun. A soft violin solo fills the air. Houselights fade and all is dark save for the soft light. The violin swells and the light slowly fades. The music fades out as we hear a woman speaking from the dark. Lights rise on and around the flower now and we see a woman kneeling on a blanket. WOMAN: Are you warm enough? I brought a blanket to sit on. I will leave it with you. I’m sure nights here are dreadfully cold. Is that okay? Can I leave the blanket for you? (Beat.) Good. Then I will. (Beat.) Yes. (Beat.) When I leave. (Long pause.) The children are doing fine. (Beat.) Chelsea made the honor roll. (Beat.) Wait? No. I- I probably already told you that, huh? (Beat.) That was last year. (Beat.) My mind always travels backward now. Since you were- …Si...

If we lie next to one another, do you think we’ll forget the world? If our fingers hunt like tongues, do you think we’ll stumble upon silence? The dream begins the same, I’m older, my mind and body, slower. The dream ends the same, you lying next to me, fingers wagging. If we rest next to one another, do you think we’ll fail to notice war? If our tongues search like fingers, do you think we’ll assemble peace? Naked, both shining with grief, we sense the other’s bones like a sniper, spin new selves with each innocent, (child, dream, mother, hope, father) slain. Tonight we’ll unwind nightmares, our imaginings, dreams, will begin the same, mind and body slower, wagging, tongues speaking the drama from slumber. Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

They had taken off their clothes and their naked souls dripped upon the snow covering the mountainside. Each drop then filled with light forming an infant star. Down the mountain, miles below, hundreds of small flowers blossomed and we delighted in the fragrant colors. Mankind sparkled, and mountains swayed in remembrance. Hundreds of years away an eagle lifts off and we delight in its gloriousness of flight under aged stars, and those same flowers bloom and we find delight in their nakedness. Never let it be said that these men did not triumph, for they've lit the sky and emboldened the world... Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

A film director makes his final film based on lies... "There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root." Henry David Thoreau PROLOGUE DIRECTOR'S VOICE: Okay! Okay! Cut! Damnit! Where are all the extras? This scene requires bodies! Loads of them! Bring on the friggin children! Quite on the set! Cue the bombs! Mothers start screaming! Fathers get that look of anger and hate in your eyes! Children, you just lie there! And roll camera ...and ACTION!" Lights rise and we see what appears to be a war movie set. There are lights and cameras and debris and bombed out shells of homes and buildings; all the bells and whistles! There are many dead bodies of Iraqi children, women and men (extras) lying all over the stage in various positions. It is, quite literally, a bloodbath. Down center stage, near the edge, is a huge oversized director’s chair. It looks almost throne-like. On the back it reads “DICTATOR”… Soon we hear a walkie...

An Iraqi exploding conversation... (A group of Iraqi men and women, old and young sit outside a café smoking and drinking coffee.) Open the play [+/-] ONE: I was born on the day the tanks first... TWO: ...rolled? ONE: Yes. Into Kuwait. TWO: All those years ago- THREE: Seems like yesterday. TWO: -upon the blistering desert sands my father raised his hands in surrender. THREE: I too raised my hands. They- TWO: Yes. THREE: -only thought I was surrendering… TWO: Yes. THREE: I was praying. TWO: Praying. FIVE: Praying. Yes. FOUR: Americans and their tanks and jeeps and humvees and guns and bombs- SIX: -were everywhere then. FOUR: Yes. Like locust. ONE: For a short time English was the regions second language. SIX: Today. ONE: Today it is. SIX: English speaking infidel. FIVE: We, my father and our friends, were nothing more than puppets for Saddam- SIX: Yes. FIVE: -and Saddam was the American puppet. SIX: Yes. TWO: We were so afraid they ...

Remains of Three More Sept. 11 Victims Identified Remains recovered years ago of three victims from the Sept. 11 attacks have been identified through new DNA testing. Two were passengers on American Airlines Flight 11; the third victim's identity was withheld at the family's request. Identities of about 40 percent of the 2,749 victims have never been confirmed. Where have you been? In the space flanked by breathing, in the sky's soul resting `neath the globe? We’ve been waiting under the moon for you, waiting on your bones to say, “Living may resume”. Where are the others? Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

This is not a poem. I am waiting. Waiting. Waiting for peace to break out. Waiting for the rain to stop. Holding on for dear life. Holding. Holding. Holding on for Guantanamo, for Abu Ghraib, for God. This is not a poem. Sensing the time has come. Wait. Wait for Human Rights waiting to fly by, waiting for the light to change. I’m waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for torture in my name. Clear Skies, Clean Air, Healthy Forest, Truthiness and Lies. No Tree Left Behind. Arsenic and Lakes, tapped lead, Mountain Top mine, his and hers mining. This is not a poem. I am waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for peace to break out. Waiting for the rain, to conquer the oil, the dirty air to conquer the fear in itself to conquer the queers and despair and to conquer space, the unknown frontier, Pre-war, pre-9/11, pre-earth, pre-heaven air. I’m waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting on the Duct Tape To be cause the Levee’s busted or n...