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.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Glued to the television for hours.

Tragedy sucks the life 

from daily routine.

Here, no work is done.

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.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Rumors of an oil-price spike.

At the station, a line of cars
coils around the block.

Neighbors honk and shriek

at one another.

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 assembles.

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

"We must respond with dignity,"
says Katherine.

My thoughts journey back 

to the Kuwait desert 

where Marines sift through 

charred bodies

and shattered, starving 

Iraqi soldiers

ordered to fight the infidels

or face a bullet to the head.

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

I reach for another

bottle of wine.

In Manhattan,

they're still pulling the dead

from the wreckage.