3507. THEY GAVE KAFKA TO THE TROOPS

THEY GAVE KAFKA 

TO THE TROOPS

'On the front lines of nothingness,

we ate corn flakes dry, beneath the

mortar rounds and flak. Those

bombed-out hulks of bunkers and

homes - things we'd already twice

destroyed  -  were still tinged and

blazing by the terror we'd inflicted:

our terror was in response to their

terror, but was a terror nonetheless,

a reverse terror twice inflicted as

response still burns. A few bodies

littered the sand field between us - 

I swear one still moved.

-

This was four months now, the

same enshrined bullshit rewarded

with the littler of shrapnel and

shell casings, the laser lines light

lofts the center-arc blaze of each

explosive we send forth  -  count the

time, to seven or eight, and listen for

the thud and then the blast. And, oh,

fear not, one or the other of them is

death, and the other destruction.

Sarge says 'leave the bastard bodies 

fallen where they fucking fell.'

-

Streams? There are none really. This

is a blasted desert oasis  -  pretty much

all that runs in rivulets here is blood. We

are rude enough to notice  -  remains and

bones, skulls or an arm. And, yeah, they're

used to be mangy, angry dogs around here,

but they're all gone. Would you wonder how?

Target marksmen at practice under a perfect moon.

-

When I get back to the states, I'm gonna' open

a restaurant, call it 'Mesopotamia Mombookay.'

It don't mean nothing, it's just fun to say  -  and I

don't care, nobody knows me, I've been trained

to kill anyway  -  so what the fuck. They can eat

my slop and like it or die. I'm living on my Uncle

Sam for the rest of my time  -  that's one, long,

happy life and they all should know it. Jesus

almighty, watch the wall! It's coming down!

-

Under this Hellfire sky, I swear to say,

there must be ten thousand stars  -  blazing,

beautiful, high light. Like fucking Heaven lives

there, right? Occasionally something moves,

a flash of light, fiery star, blazing earth-moon

celestial torch. So cool, and amazing, and on

this sand, like glass, and hot. Looking up, I

can sometimes see for a million miles and a

thousand years  -  but back or forwards I

can never say, 'cause I never know.'