CONFESSION ZERO

Dry mouths tear up the ground. Little remains to scream. The toxic beast has devoured the dove, the hungry winds are sopping them up with tongues as rough as death. They've shred the money into plastic leaving charity without clothes. Sounds like the end of them, faces without names or use, concrete beasts as far as the eye can see. Used to be easier to tell when hunger reared its head, with each growl the sight that was old looked familiar, shrunken, tattered and mad, even angels have turned away from our mess. The hordes look sad, torn feathers line the streets, picture frames of a human family, dove’s blood smearing the glass. Used to shock us, numb our eyes to the suffering, caused us to shudder, wince, scream and ache. Used to shock our bodies, these careworn faces now mirroring ours and twisting their bent limbs down like a song made of wire. © 2010 by mark pr...

This month (September), like last year on Confession Zero, will be dedicated to Hunger Action . There's more than one path to starvation, perhaps none seem as cruel as the empty belly, but they are cruel nonetheless. Willful ignorance breeds contempt, yet it’s seeds cannot feed the hungry.  Lies, when repeated, are believed to be truth, yet not a single bloom opens as a result. The path remains open to us. We boil our wits in the fatty waters. The ancient hearts decay and the rising truth draws near with the laughter of invention. Where is our creation in this, our swamp? When might we begin? At whose behest if not our own? Why have we not thought of the human invention? The warring of knowledge- Fear of our tenure of creation- Come! Let us begin! Let us feast on truth alone, the rest will follow. © 2010 by mark prime Hunger Action Month This is the first poem in the month-long series of daily poems,   September Songs , posted for th...

The leaves falling look burnt plummeting to the dry ground. The trees are calling to me in the wind; caveats of a gold and brown foliage weaving a blanket to hold autumn in. The people falling look tired tumbling to their final respite. To them the gunships are calling down; warning of a god-fouled battle that stuffs their children in the ground. The truth of these events, the summers scorched leaves and the cheerless weather of roaring guns, is that the moving images of surrender are an omen of a reckless storm. © 2010 by mark prime Proudly on Wikileaks' Side

I’m... © 2010 by mark prime Project For A New American Century

Anytime I say the word “laughter” I want you to laugh out loud, okay? “Laughter”… 4,731 U.S. and Coalition forces killed in Iraq divided by the cost of the occupation to date, equals 200 hundred and 78 million, 500 and 99 thousand, 800 and 82 dollars per death! Add in the number of Iraqi civilian casualties and the number of Iraqi Police killed and the individual net worth is around 1,284 dollars! By the time we leave here tonight, the net worth of every single human being killed in the Occupation of Iraq will be worth less than… 0 (zero)- 1, 2, 3, yellow pine, aroma aloft, the stench of a war crime I’d watched. 5, 6, 7, these three boxes suffered the horror of a million gutless tongues, the marching numbers are a mausoleum of shattered year. 11, 12, 13, they track existence down and crush it where it stands and they wait and wait and rapidly they spring- 16, opening fire, winding the clock of flesh with invariable death, and the laughter? Well it calls out for another set, so poli...

It was after noon, because we’d just had lunch. She asked me to walk her home, but I had to get back to work. She was a dear friend of mine. Other than that, all I can tell you is that it was bright that day, not a cloud in the sky. I can’t tell you more than that because that’s all I know. She could’ve told you the weight of his fist on her mouth or how his anger leapt out and the impression it made on her soul, but I can’t tell you that, because I don’t know. She could’ve told you that after a week or so her broken skin would creep back over the abrasions and only the gaping holes in the walls would attest to his maddened decorations and she could’ve told you how her heart would become a hungry child when his rage fed upon her fear. She could’ve told you, in her own way, that she knew, that she pleaded, that she prayed that his crimson rage and fist-fallen fury would grow weary and just walk away. Or how when he wasn’t even there that his hands still scratched at her breasts and...

A boy I knew when I was a kid was so skinny we called him “handrail” . His tattered clothes fell around him like shadows at a funeral and no one ever saw him in the cafeteria, except on Fridays with his flop-over and his raw potato in an oily paper sack where he’d savor every little bite as if the executioner waited with his ax. I want to write an end of hunger love song where all the high note’s are composed of delicious meats to coat the hungry dreams and low notes are made of half eaten happy-meals, but not emptiness, and with endless verses carved from full tummies of sleep! I have heard many other songs in yesterday’s mist shattering truth down like dried bones and clinched fist, a silent breaking, minds masked in private pain, man’s own howling and craving and loss, his bane. So please take note of the end of hunger love song and elevate it’s joy to an immeasurable tallness, lift starvation beyond the tapering gaze, our bones lay gently down, near enough to cuddle w...