Bloodlight Bloom (a poem)

Wednesday, June 18, 2025

The morph and form,
the treasure of a father figure—
and when it’s weaponized,
watch ‘em war,
watch ‘em go.

Protector or predator?
Reaper and surveillance drones
hum lullabies in foreign tongues.

That’s some bloodlust.
That’s what we’re looking for.
Drop another—
whoa.

So beautiful, that bloom.
From the hills,
it looks like a cool light show.

All that devastation—
and we see the fireworks.

Uncle Sam,
turned militant patriarch,
gather up the patriots
and let’s spend that blood.

A dome for me,
for you—
which side?
One’s gonna away.
Gone away.

The darts of fire,
blazing toward the board—
and you can be sure it’s a bullseye.
The matador Americana.
Viva la dominance.

I’m no wizard,
no expert—
just been called to witness.
But that doesn’t mean
I’m not complicit.

Entangled fates,
the mythoanatomy—
broke apart,
not dissected.

Exploded.

What does war say
to the inner narrator?
To the collective one?
To the child
inside the witness
who once thought
fireworks were beautiful?

Burning cities,
regimes revolve—
the revolutions
keep collapsing
in on themselves.

Boston.
Dust in the wind.
Tehran and Jerusalem.
All the persons
and their tea oil.