When a drone kills
an insurgent (or whomever).
It is called
bug splat.
Bug splat.
That’s funny.
Is it because it happens
on a computer screen,
or because they are
killed by insects (drones)?
or
Is it because
that is what we
have to do
to make it ok?
At the Friday night lights town
a dead Marine’s image
is posted at the crossroads.
A news crew interviews
folks at the diner,
a fountain of wisdom,
an oracle.
“I remember him playing football.”
“He loved the Cardinals.”
“He died for our way of life.”
“His mom works at the Family Dollar.”
The folks are eating.
Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, corn,
choice of slaw or cup of soup,
pie and coffee.
The TV is on.
Combines are in the field.
In the small towns,
in the country,
it is either marriage or war
that we honor.
The flowers here are sky blue.
Paler than dress blue.
Paler than gun blue.
Paler than the bluebirds.
The blue chicory flowers
bloom for miles.
Roadside blooms
instead of roadside bombs.
Jake would walk the gravel road
and pick flowers
to take home
or smell the licorice.
Jake stopped by the road
and picked the flower.
Flower blue in one hand,
gun blue in the other.
He smelled the licorice,
then blew out his brains.
He would not do a fourth tour.
is a 67-year-old retired welder and counselor. He was in the Peace Corps in
India in '68, '69. And is now writing poetry and stories with a group in
Peoria, IL. He is “disturbed, saddened, frustrated by what I see as the
creeping militarism and glorification of war and the resultant damage it has
done to many young people.”