9-11 Diary

Horrific morning.

While I deliberate
between scrambled eggs
and breakfast cereal,
they are leaping from the towers

to elude the flames.

They are burning alive

under the concrete rubble.

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Glued to the television for hours.

Tragedy sucks the life 

from daily routine.
Here, no work is done.
No progress.
We are at a halt.

A friend arrives for consolation.
"I can't take anymore," she cries,
switching the channel
to Cartoon Network.

We get high and watch 

animated characters
gleefully bludgeon each other,
but only for a moment

before returning to the day's events

ashamed of our indulgence.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Rumors of an oil-price spike.

At the station, a line of cars
stretches around the block.
Neighbors are honking at each other.
I wait nearly an hour to fill up.

The man at pump three
lights a cigarette.
The woman at pump four
demands he put it out.

"Lady, haven't you heard?"
the man responds.
"It's the end of the world."

She looks to me for support.
I say nothing.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Fanatics have seized the day,

religious zealots drunk

with vanity and self-righteous rage.

One of ours has raises his ugly head.
He is on the radio
blaming abortionists, pagans,
liberals and feminists,
gays and lesbians,
the ACLU.

"I point a finger in their face!"
he howls.
"YOU HELPED THIS HAPPEN!"

Thus, madness begets madness.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

A dinner party is assembled.

"I'm inclined to show mercy,"
Philip declares.

"Drop a nuke on the bastards,"
James replies.

"We must respond with dignity,"
says Katherine.

I am back in the Kuwait desert

sifting through charred bodies

and shattered, starving Iraqi soldiers

ordered to fight the infidels

else receive a bullet

to the head.

It is trifling

to ascribe forgiveness

when our bellies are full

and our loved ones near.

Ask the combat veteran.
Ask the ER doctor.
Ask the victims of this dark day.

Someone, somewhere

is always confronting

a hellish choice.