Jon Zerivitz
Newsrealtime
It’s difficult to recall the grit scraped friction of sand in
your teeth,
While we gawk from the collective couch; hot-pockets of resistance in our laps.
Does this look like yours? Can you watch yourself and pretend
not to see?
*
Peeling dry eyes from the sight, I turn to tell a reporter
what I’ve seen.
He has crawled, elbows and knees, up the sandy hill, blue
vested and aims
his weapon at my head.
*
Somewhere there is war because we haven’t had one in a while
and there is space on our
shelves.
Somewhere we are not wanted. Trust us we say, you’ll love
us. As if we were ice cream.
As if it was ice cream dropping on desert sands. Uncle Sam
and the Good Fucking
Somewhere there is war of words, verbal shrapnel and leaflet
bombs left unread.
Whiteflag deception, and antique artillery has rusted our
memory.
Why are we here?
*
Sunsmooth and dry, a child, no more than twelve, asks if the
water is good. Water good, I
say and give him a drink. He smiles as a veiled woman hurls
heavy words I cannot
understand, and pulls him away by his arm.
*
I stared at a
I turned it off