CONFESSION ZERO

This year what shall we commemorate? What ghosts shall accompany our odes? Are we forever to bow to a headless myth? Is it right? Is it hopeful? Will it pass on, joining those without cause now gone? Time is a fickle creature shaped like dreams, last year can be no more than one year, the year before that and the next and the next. Ghosts wander in our minds not upon the ground and only in dreams might we call to them. Rage flies swiftly dispersing its grave weight and we feel nothing behind our dead face. Have we ever felt anything, headless phantoms, we? Last year mocks not the year before. It is we, we who mock the solemn red dawn. We’ll soon bow our headless heads in majestic awe and whispers of vengeance soaring on high, burdening the ground with a wrathful screeching sound. Next year how shall we mourn? Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

march march march bomb bomb bomb work work work bang bang bang enslave yourself to mankind’s bane march march march onward now in rhythmic chains stepping now forward once then twice back bomb bomb bomb truth now split hope gone flat march march march toward the tower toward your god work work work this, our drum, it must not stop! bang bang bang bomb bomb bomb march march march march march march march march march... Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman

They tiptoed into my sleep wearing dusty clothes and no shoes. They tried to not let me hear them but the little girl put forth a giggle and the boy laughed, too. Soon the whole room teetered in merriment. A while passed and a hush fell around us; a silent prayer, save for the short breaths of the children; petite puffs in search of a throat. There were nearly twenty in the group. They had been searching for years but were always met with sideways glances, and oftentimes violence. They smelled like sand. They were gentle. I sensed they’d come for my help, but knew not what I could do. The looks on their faces; the pain. The anguish... The truth... The little boy now began to cry, followed soon after by the little girl. Then, like rain, we all began to weep. Our crying grew into an unexpected howl; a sorrowful choir of wingless angels... and a great wall of water crashed down upon us dropping from the shat...

A game of hide and seek with terror. The stage is completely in shadow. We are in The War Zone. There is a slight sound of something very large smacking its lips. It is subtle, yet disturbing. A spot rises on THE GRANDMOTHER (the oldest living thing) standing center. Though ancient, she is elegant and graceful. Her skin resembles tree bark and vine. She addresses the audience as lights rise on the stage. Open the play [+/-] THE GRANDMOTHER: Fear! Terror! Horror! (Her voice echoes.)  Fear tosses its colossal head on the rooftops of Iraq, on the rooftops of the world! Look upon your terror!  (We now see the bodies of Iraqi men, women and children and US and coalition troops lying all over the stage motionless.)  It has not the countenance of man! It is monstrous! A grotesque formation of man’s greed! Is this what you want for your children, this- an ogre of your own making? It tosses its colossal head upon the rooftops of the w...

Two men running away from empire into truth... (Lights rise on a bare stage. Lightening flashes are seen slashing across the sky. Soon a distant rumble like that of an advancing line of military tanks can be heard far off in the distance behind the audience. Two men enter running from the back of the house to the stage. They stop center. As the action takes place the rumbling grows ever so louder.) Open the play [+/-] MAN 1: It hasn’t a heart! MAN 2: It’s too monstrous! MAN 1: It hasn’t a heart! MAN 2: Its fire raining down upon us! MAN 1: Upon the Maroun al-Ras and- MAN 2: -Bint Jubayl- MAN 1/MAN 2: -And Ayta al-Sha’b! MAN 1: It hasn’t a heart! MAN 2: The great steel birds far, far away, soaring high above- MAN 1: -far from the fires of resistance fighters in resolute Lebanon! MAN 2: The great vengeance pours forth over the bodies of our tender, sleeping children. MAN 1: The blameless children. M...

This is my war hat, said the smirking man to the searing concrete. I’m a war president! A war president! War’s all I know! All I know! There is something in the stale braying of the man who hangs words about in dread, who barks and yelps, War War War War, eternal… This is the inane bray of an oafish bully a pseudo-tyrant’s howl, a full on liar’s groan, I’m a war president! A war president! War’s all I know! For all those countermand to peace they’ve a king in him. © 2006 mrp/thepoetryman 32 Lebanese and 4 Israelis Killed Friday Thousands of Iraqis Chant Death to Israel- Death to America!

First bloom Bomb IED Sacrament Deity Folded pain Given thee …A plea …A grasp …A hope …A bomb …An IED …An unfurrowed pain …An offering to thee Bloom Bomb IED Children Ache Forfeit Thee …Take this tree, gOD …Take this flower …Crush this stone …This father …This mother …Arid land …Emptiness We are In your image Beautiful Furious Loving Failing Copyright © 2006 mrp