You boys awoke with just another day ahead. You perhaps anticipated it with dread because, Lord, it seems to me looking for good men and women in an office in a strip mall, no matter how worthy the endeavor, must be terribly dull. Some of you kissed a wife or lover 'Good-bye' and just went off to work. Perhaps you had discussed with her weekend plans. You maybe even left angry because of something you both would have forgotten about by the evening and which she will now remember forever.

You carried no service weapon. We trust you, expect you, to defend us, yet some idiots who have never fired a pistol in their lives, and whom I am quite sure would not be able to distinguish one firearm from another, decided that you should be unarmed as you sat in your offices and recruited Americans into the services. (I know that those who decided this go forth into the public with fully-armed protection personnel. And as elites who need to be guarded so as not to miss their evening appointment with a good Chardonnay and a willing government intern, they do need to stay safe. They have people to meet, memoirs to write, and blueprints of libraries to attend to. The libraries will be steel and glass edifices suspended heavenward and visited on summer holidays many years hence by families who go there just because of the name.)

Tomorrow your names will be printed, and the next day your names will be forgotten save by the wife, the lover, the child, the mother and father, your sisters and brothers. And all of these will remember every July 16, every birthday, every, maybe, Thursday. (I had someone killed on a Thursday and once I stopped screaming, the overtones of those screams returned to me, still return, every Thursday. This even years since. It will always be years since, now.)

I saw a man bent over, kneeling really, on his knees crying. There is no symphony of grief as pure and complete, it seems to me, as the sound of a grown man weeping.

An impossibly young bugler may crack the note at your funerals as he gives us 'Taps' and the flag is handed to your girls.

And the speakers will return to their armored limousines, turn to their trusted aides for rave reviews of their 'remarks' and speed on to an evening at the home theater.

And the killer? Well he is just a demented, confused man. A non-overseas-contingency fella.

Nothing to look at here. Move along. We will.

Views: 123

Comment by Arthur James on July 17, 2015 at 10:55am


... I agree...

Be Well. do good

works - good deeds,

and no act as IF thee

unclean ` shell-fish '

a selfish ` Ail - lost '

Selfish ` As? - blind '

a inner ` So? - Ill-ail '

Inner so`1-? - huh '

read wisdom ` lit '

aye? no? okay ` ail '

desolate? Yep 1` ill '

and Sigh? Inner ` ail '

Soul-essence 1- sick '

spiritually - darkened '

Blind and - Desolate '



it just a pop-

off vent...

1- no rancor

2- no animosity

3- no beer? huh?

4- Maybe at 4PM?

Great Idea, okay?

`,' it funny? goof?

o, dangerous too?


Comment by Barbara Joanne on July 17, 2015 at 11:00am
My Southern boy was not in the service. My Southern dad was. I love my Southern boys.
Comment by Barbara Joanne on July 17, 2015 at 11:03am
Thanks for reading Arthur.
Comment by August von Doggus on July 17, 2015 at 12:23pm


Comment by Barbara Joanne on July 17, 2015 at 12:25pm
Thanks Token.
Comment by Barbara Joanne on July 17, 2015 at 10:01pm
Thanks Steel Breeze.
Comment by Jerry DeNuccio on July 18, 2015 at 7:51am

Powerful perspective.  I like the way you use your writing here: it makes your anger visible but contains it, and that containment creates a sort of pressure that gives your piece rhetorical power.

This sentence is arresting: "There is no symphony of grief as pure and complete, it seems to me, as the sound of a grown man weeping."  The image is incisive, but it also resonates: I recall thinking along the same lines as I watched my next door neighbor watch his house burn down, the tears on his face illuminated by the fire.  Such unbearable grief.  It made me cry.

Comment by Arthur James on July 18, 2015 at 8:14am



Be in cheerful mood...

One day Ray ( dead now )

was a Guest. I tried to feed

Ray pro-biotic 0 semi - old

Indian ( 5,000 years ) grub.

Ray lost a ear ( cut off by VA )

and I was Sad... Annabella ask

Ray How he lost his Left Ear.

He showed Annabella ( 5? ) -

I still see My Granddaughter's

Tear Shed From Her Eye Down

Her Cheek. I cry Tears When I

Remember. I Wiped Her Tear

off her Freckled Cheek With 

my Right Pointing Finger. She's

Well. We Discuss... Ray would eat

the left-over Wedding Cake Frozen

in The Freezer. I Drove Ray Back to a

PA slum apartment. He dies after a few

months. Ya's can'y Help some dirty folks.

It a sad Memory... O, well. He got to pilfer

my Daughters left-over Homemade Great

Weed-ing Cake. He was a Mess. Politico?

He knew Everything? So he thought. Louse!

`, ' R.I.P.

Comment by Barbara Joanne on July 18, 2015 at 10:47pm
Jerry thank you for your kind comments.

Arthur, thanks for coming by.


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