Perceptions

He looked and looked and looked again;
he rubbed his eyes and looked and then
he saw so clear, but knew not what
it meant to him, or so the thought,
until he tried to sort things out,
but then his mind was full of doubt
and still unsure his mind did stray:
the vision would not go away,
nor would the tastes, the smells, the sound,
all signals full load, all in-bound,
until his head would sheer explode
or maybe, it would just implode:
it didn't matter either way,
his self he tried so hard to save
to no avail, he'd lost his hold
upon his dreams – no, those he'd sold –
and so he tried to take firm hold
of what he saw; he thought he'd told
what was right, good, of course, the truth;
he thought he'd done so since his youth,
yet that was just a twist of fate
and breathing in, he tried to wait
but stumbling, grasping, thinking back
he couldn't say, he'd lost the track
or scent or trail or what it's called
and losing more, he was appalled
that he, so proud, of all he knew
could find himself in such a stew,
for this was stuff for simpler men
who rubbed their eyes and looked again.
But all we've got are senses, five:
without them, we could not survive.

Not-born-in-the-USA Blues

She was eight years-old. She had her whole life
before her, till she was bug-splatted
like her brothers, her sister, her mother.
Father was vaporized a year ago.

And her annihilation will be argued
(by untouched, made-up heads, wanting to be
something, someone, but at her expense)
if it was a good bomb, or a bad one.

And the polls and pundits pontificate
in those far-off lands of the occident,
so unknown, so different, so exotic,
like in a thousand and one horrid dreams.

We all know: the world must be made safe.
From whom? For whom? And why was that again?
I couldn't hear you. They're droning my home.
Oh! sorry you feel threatened round your campfire.

But, decisions must be made, and hard ones:
tough love, I say, when it kills to be kind;
and, well, you cannot know what's good for you
when you live that close to oil; we know best;

we're all called upon to make sacrifices,
for ways-of-life are at stake, just not yours;
we're so sorry you happened to be,
by chance, at the wrong place at the wrong time.

I was eight years-old. I had my whole life
in front of me, till I was bug-splatted
like my brothers, my sister, my mother.
Father was vaporized a year ago.