Masters of no Universe

 Here we find ourselves again

Everyone watching the madness… live.

Again, the same seed blossoming

a man's ego, bruised.

The self proclaimed masters of the universe

unable to be the master of his small self.

And the bombs scatter to the wind like dandelions





Pain and destruction from the sky, day and night.

“What kind of poetry might this be?” I ask myself.

Tearing apart flesh and concrete,

incinerating and dismantling homes

wooden toys 

beds where people sleep and make love and cry

dressers drawers with condoms and pouches of tobacco that will never get smoked

the pleasures of a far away and past life fusing and melting into a useless 

and now a distant memory of just last Thursday, seventy some hours ago.

There is a pause in the blasts

The human animal hides underground 

The only sound is that of flames consuming the tires of a transport vehicle

and concrete breaking away from an apartment ten storeys above

accumulating on the charred streets.

And then another blast!

A woman lays next to her sleeping baby

the air around them ignites in a photographic flash

their internal organs liquify with a shockwave, turning to vapor, and then dust.

The baby girls never knew she was alive,

the mother never knew that she was dead.

It is an aluminum photograph we all want to forget, but we must not.

That same moment, in another city an old man checks his Patek Phillipe

a gift purchased with profits of war, and the plunder of Eden's treasure, it is 3:30 am.

“This morning we will be victorious.” he thinks to himself, alone in this hour of the night.

He yawns, his breath is stale, stagnant, putrid. 

He is wrong, and has miscalculated.

In a world of paradoxes and where chaos is the true master of the universe

his lies run out of fuel against immovable blocks of the human will to live free

and even if he achieves a tactical victory 

a comedian's army will win the war.