Sundaynoon. (a war in the living room.) by Nadine Sellers

Hour long bath, lather, slather, pamper and puff, all shaved and shiny, every orifice a baby wonder; now 'tis time to ponder; tomorrow we shall prosper. Dusty wool gapes from a sofa's arms, where a Sunday pragmatist has fluttered and flapped at unbearable atrocities; cabled truth bytes have marked many a daily life. A trunkload full of herbs from Mexico couldn't make usual news fare more palatable, a shoebox full of Tums could hardly render reality more digestible. So, soldiers lost, soldiers found, some dead, some crawling; news are still spewing out by the reams as most observe a day of rest, mostly unaware, certainly weary. Sharp commentary from trusted media offers a peephole view of obscene horror, yet the voyeur hungers evermore. Kill that wrinkle, beat that stain, conquer that odor, remove that pain: Quotidium overwhelms resources in the mundane energy drain. Dry tears fall from another dark child's face out of sterile newsprint, and the reader feels no remorse; have thee no shame? Some preacher, somewhere hollers wrath and spits bullets from a waxy pulpit; and the patriots pray; have thee no blame? Arrogant faces rejoice along with digital renditions of infidel fedeyin toppling statues of a fallen tyrant, dance now, for tomorrow is next. How long till planted evidence proves the case for more willful demolition? When does the flower in the gun barrel turn to bayonet. Smile while you may, smile while you can, uranium may not be all that is depleted, when teeth and testicles fall by the way. Hard to believe that every fifth grader has read the periodic chart of metals and elements; and so few can predict nuclear fallout. One is metal, one is meat, guess who shall win? A vicarious bomb splatters destruction in neat little packages; one is lethal, one is beat. History shall reveal that Spartans wore sandals to battle, women were raped by Vandals; what souvenir shall your soldiers reap? Geobusiness rampant, bonus toting, boat floating magnates ignore slave's complaints; smells of poverty, smells of revolution! War, money? Poor, filthy? Oh, yes! Keep 'em busy; somebody's got to pay for it all; and it ain't acolytes of the wealthy! As long as work replaces devil, as long as news constitutes entertainment, no despicable despot has anything to worry about! Grassroots fertilizer is cheap, action comes harder; it takes nerve to rebel, and some insanity to act upon the seed.

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