Pity the warrior, he lives in the worst of us
When you’ve seen the face of man
what the fuck is left to us?
In places where death is the meager mercy offered
to spit in the dust like a cowboy movie maestro
no spurs jinglejangle just a bowl of bullets and powdered milk
marchin’ straight and stoic solemn faces shambling minds.
Hail the Chief, hands painted white to hide the stains
a fistful of dollars tossed onto his salad plate
truffle oil to help make the paper go down
shame in the back of his mind faded by the sun like
a lopsided sofa on a sidewalk sale,
the family mourning their possessions
with an eye to their fortunate future.
The mobster spits on the medals he bestows
and shines them with his white cuff just to gaze at the
reflection of his expensive dental work in the brass,
the casualties sliding to the floor from the printer
and caught under his shoe.
Parades where Mothers tell children to wave,
have you ever seen waves of grain?
there is no diving and swimming among them.
only dirt.
thank them for their service with a sigh of relief
you do not know their grief,
as you send them to face the face of man.
As we send them to face the face of man.
As we send them to face the face of man.