Politics Has No Place in Poetry

A child seeks bottles of water yet drinks heavy ice into her small tummy.
It matters little.
Snipers for fun.
 
You find yourself hunted on a holiday.
Evicted to live Australian Rock beneath a shiny blue mosque.
Chased to the hillside in a burqa.
“If they came for my mud hut,” in a drawl, “I’d shoot too.”
 
Dawn mortars arc silently overhead. 
A bus of Kenyan Russians. A young mother and childbirth. The integrity of a doctor. A spy chief. Blasted reporters on the internet.
Wrong call, lost all.
Eyes, middle, turbans, coffin. 
His arm suddenly on one side of the road. Neck seeps in the pavement.
But Keurig.
A sound I heard.
While, his eyes must calmly pry for threats. 
 
The bat named Nabob,
He flies overhead.
Nabob cuts to the slaves in single file.
Eggs break on heads and inhale.
Running down andrologous faces,
Impregnating lungs.
Starving yet unable to lick.
Unable to drink.
 
Imagine I have a magic elixir.
One teaspoon is enough.
The elixir heals the sick,
Makes the landbound fly,
Reverses time to make the imbiber young.
The first teaspoon yields miracles.
The second a bit less so.
By the third the effect is to the root of three.
It can’t be sold and retain its magic.
How do you feel about me and my elixir?
I have gallons and gallons of the stuff.
 
A general, distracted.
A man brags of the 60,000 recommended killed.
A Frenchman, who spent $20 Billion.
A tennis game, between mousy Colonels.
The fate of thousands, decided.
“I don’t want to kill anymore.”
But then, you’re chained to the wrong chair.
Does $100,000 worth of salt ever really expire?
How is it, that we love each other?
And, is there an expiration date on our tears?
The thumping that must be cannot stand the parched absent heat.
Yet, the pounding must.
Wet indicates water.
Abandon yourself to the sound of this purple ice melting in your small lungs.
Fall from the clouds of emptiness with eyes shut.

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