War

In honor of those who have suffered the horrors of Hurricane Katrina.

So this is what war looks like.
Sporadic bright whites behind a distant graphite sky.
Days and nights in which the morning and evening horizons
will have no color, only ashly anvils gliding forward.
A ceaselessly downing wall of bullets shooting the earth,
breaking its skin and evacuating its strivetosurvive inhabitants--
if they don't drown, they'll die drying, but at least they died trying to survive.

So this is what war sounds like.
A crescendoing cacophony of lo-fi booms pocking vast grasslands.
Of airy whistles both shrill and groaning and pops and screams falsetto and tenor.
Of near-ear cracks that make you wince and of a voluminous static enveloping all.
And the sounds abound remain around so long as
the defense's steadfast and passionate as the defenseless
offense idles in its convulsing cowering.

So this is what war feels like.
A cold that'd put a blanket of ice to shame.
Sharp stings everywhere like a guerilla militia of bee pricks.
A blowing pushing that'll have your body in a hypotenuse if it can,
and blendering with wood and glass torpedoes if it can't.
A cracking and snapping whip-tail whipping if you're too close.
A subtle and sly breeze if you're too far.

You think this is false, that wars like this are mere battles?
Or worse yet, that wars like this do not exist, do not happen?
Tell that to the blitzkreig conniption fits of our dear Mother.
She is spontaneity-incarnate. She is merciless and spectacular.
She is nameless as a whole but we name her wars and battles.

We live in her home and if we keep kickin' up,
she'll keep kickin' out.