Dreaming of East Beirut


Up an aisle, a bag of Huggies
and an issue of People beneath an arm,
an AK-47 shoulder slung
Like Warhol, he parses
the significance of row upon row
of brightly colored soup cans.


Skateboard kids carve sidewalk
slicing drinkers out front of the bar.
At the curb, turning, one gives them
another pass.  The Springfield
holstered at his hip, accessorizing
the untucked red and black plaid 
of his shirt. A poser’s dare,
that like the one ring, ever thirsts
for its true master


This Gaza father tests
the firmness of figs, of apricots
Palms sweaty, he holds hands
with a son already lost 
to Gameboy yearnings

This East Beirut mother
hurries toddlers 
around a corner
and out of direct lines of fire

Basra booksellers
sit in cafes,
pause to catch up, to parse
the happenings: 
Brazil in the world’s cup,
the cratering of the Rubble … 
with Mina al-Bakar visibly smoldering
just outside of town, they sip their araq,
try not to spill from hands 
that ever so slightly tremble 


Another Kansas town,
overgrown with lily-white grievances
feted on Netflix and sated
with plenty’s petty injustices:
long waits in box-store
checkout lines; having to stand
so fucking near 
to those discomfiting others

These mothers’ sons and daddy’s
little princesses, peacefulness
dished up for them with their choice
some colored sprinkles
Little they fathom the cost
of wrestling the genie into the bottle
In the first place

Heady on the taffy confections of
$1 Redbox day rentals:
Shooter and American Sniper
Titillating and saccharine-ripe
with major brand, tie-in inspiration
Sanitized and defanged by microwave dinners,
recliners and the hall lights left on

Yes, another Kansas town
Dodge, Deadwood.  Never thinking
it could ever be anything more difficult
than pressing a button on a remote
in order to turn down the volume 
on all of that damned screaming