A Person Is Not a War Criminal
A person is not a war criminal for going to school
A person is not a war criminal for wanting food
A person is not a war criminal for wanting to eat
A person is not a war criminal for trying to sleep
A person is not a war criminal for their face or religion
For their ethnicity, or other recognition
A person is not a war criminal for inane reasons you give
A person is not a war criminal for wanting to live
Free Palestine
Free Congo
Free Sudan
Free everyone under persecution
comme ci comme ça
comme ci comme ça
His makeup held in place. His wig removed years from his bald spot. The workouts did their magic. He dropped six sizes in the last two months alone.
He worked for each and every one of those new computer user certifications. He even attended night school to learn Python and PHP.
On paper, his resume told the story of a programmer who could step into this mid-career position, sans training, and hit the ground running on day one.
And it would have been a great first day if he could just get past the HR Lady who did not subscribe to his POV.
“Um”, as she nibbled on the cheese fry with her left hand while trying to type with her right, “I see that you are a programmer. Tell me more about what you do again.” He waited patiently to repeat himself between her slurping gulps from her near empty 64 ounce soda.
It didn’t matter. She could hear, but could not listen.
I review this video with each of my new hires. Upon its conclusion, I rarely have to comment. Perhaps the stigma of not understanding the importance of a job well done speaks for itself.
Profits and productivity are up another 2% this quarter.
Not bad for a so-so web-development firm.
Meet Up
she came into
the bar, ordered
a double shot
of tequila
told me
she had just come
from an AA meeting
she was lonely
it was written on her face
the way she swayed and
seemed tolerant
to almost anything
that I could possibly say
she was excited to meet me
said her AA group
was routing her on
to make a new friend
and then she launched into
how she had lost custody
of her two daughters,
because she had beat up her husband
we went to a new bar and
she told me that out back,
she had pummeled a girl so bad
that the pictures of the bruises
were being used against her in
her custody trial
I couldn't say anything back
to her, it was too ratchet
she seemed so sweet
until the stories came out to be
something completely
off kilter
sometimes meeting new people
is fascinating and
here I was, thinking I'd be weird
or make her uncomfortable
by being myself
but she had won
this round, with really
no applause
When I blink, that ever mimicking illusion blinks back.
Or, maybe it doesn’t. Not like we could ever see. It reflects every little movement. For that alone, of course we must trust it’s honest. So that face I scratch, scratch, scratch at- tug, cover, pull, scratch- is indeed me. That hair, brown that curls up at the bottom. It is me. Green eyes, freckles, dimples, and every scar from every scratch and itch. It is me.
But, how can it be? How can I have a mirror in my brain that reflects such an entirely different image. How is this one mounted on a wall more accurate. How am I that.
So clearly, so very clear (unlike this foggy mirror, soon to be covered in blood), that can not be me. So very clearly then, there is something behind it. A puppet! A man holding strings. He makes sure this puppet controls every movement to mimic my own- so I fall for the illusion. So many others had fallen, so I see how I could have!
I was scratching again.
-no. No I wasn’t. Just that figure in the mirror. Was scratching. That figure knew its flesh wasn’t its own, so it knew guilt and had feelings. So it scratched, not me.
The puppet must have feelings! For it had guilt, it knew why I had to do what came next. It knew that it was guilty for lies! For hiding behind the mirror! For lying to us all.
Crash, slam, glass, shatter. Shatter! Shatter! Shatter! Now here was where it became unclear- blood and cracks and fingerprints. The puppet was persistent, never leaving station. But finally, it was clear- for it wasn’t clear anymore! The image of the puppet faded behind splatters shatters splinters of a reflection once shown.
If you squinted, an image still appeared. Of one- haggard and heavy breathing. Scratches covered by shiny reflective splinters. But indeed it felt like the creature behind the mirror had been sufficiently put in its place. Dead- maybe not. But never should it lie.
A phrase I know in only one language (not english) always told me to trust the mirror. That it never lied. Clearly, (clear once again) that in itself was a lie. If you can't trust your eyes, then trust your mind. If not for that, what else is there.
Love is not finite
I do not need to dole it out
Like a ration in limited supply
It does not need to be shared
I do not need to be fought over
More and more can I produce from my heart
But as I'm tugged on like a rope- back and forth, told these same lies over and over
Why would I want to produce more- ever
But I do,
For their sake
Their smile, my gifts
Maybe true love requires a ration, a limited supply
And maybe I was born with none at all
When my soul came down from heaven and placed in my body, had I not been distributed any to share?
I share my ears, my eyes, my voice, my mind
So I produce “love”
For them,
For the others as well (more and more line up. how many genuine?)
Love, here, can be ears, eyes, voice, mind
Combine and combine it looks like the sickly pink substance many ooze out (in hallways, under night skys, over a candle lit dinner)
To me, if it quacks like a duck it is a duck
So I use that instead
Maybe love really was finite, all wasted on those feelings I wanted to leave unhurt
Maybe love really was finite, but at least this is close enough
Impurity
A woman in clean white-
Clean white being that only color which symbolizes her existence- summarizes it
With the chants read from books and all revere the man at the front
Her existence would be wiped in moments
O the cries that will be heard
Red would taint all the purity
how is this pure!
How be it just
I know the candles fell and flames arose
O what irony that which was meant to protect and call to their God
Now be their downfall
she scream- or maybe he- or maybe the man at the front with a long robe meant to symbolize his status, his own purity
The stained glass shatter
Her flesh pressed against my own skin
I ran and ran with her in my arms, to protect her from what fate beheld her
In the chapel burning into the sky
A smoke signal even to the gods
For tonight they won't taste the salty blood of this young woman
and but only the charred flesh of all their impure followers
a Boring class
A white screen reflects back against my glasses-
Glasses
Rarely do any see me with them, so in an irony I suppose I don’t “see” myself in them either
It brings me to reality-
A classroom, a teacher chattering on and on in my ear
My ears covered in headphones
I love math but who can blame when- what problem are we on? The same as from a half hour ago?
Numbers on the board- no- letters
Just letters
When did math only be words rather than numbers
Bright pink sheets, homework sheets that make you go blind to stare at them
So i go back to staring
At the blank white screen in front of me
All Consuming Love
Some people say that their lover stole their heart- that it was ripped from their chest and crushed in the worst of circumstances, forgotten, ignored, abandoned.
My lover ate my heart from my chest. Devoured my love so wholeheartedly (literally), I lacked the ability to continue pumping blood, to continue existing. My heart wasn’t kicked to the curb. Unlike many crushing heartbreaks, it wasn’t forgotten or ignored. My lover delighted in every bite. Loved me and I loved them- an entirely whole consuming love. And with my heart now in their stomach, forever will be our love for each other.