Wrong side.

An excerpt from my required poetry "blog." I should have written this a while ago.

*NOTE-- this is not a poem. This is just free-writing about things I could write about. Lines that are crossed out and casualties in my war against the backspace key.



And I like this game, Call of Duty. Have you ever played it?
Oh, you're Japanese.


Call Can you tell me what that's like?
The blood in my wrists pulse when I think of all the digital soldiers that look like you.
And I can't help but feel ashamed.
Because I also think of the detail that the game producers paid attention to
(maybe for more money because they can write it on the box)
like screaming sound effects
animations of the human form when you apply a bit of fire
and the ambiance "ambient" blaring siren of the flesh crackling
that sickening association with cooking bacon
it makes me want to die too.

It makes me wish that there was a game where you could even the odds.
A children's toy.
An arcade box.
Because we die, too.
Because we've got the evil.
We know what it takes to be evil.
We make playthings of people we call evil
and we line you all up and shoot you and it only costs a day's wages.
I'm sorry.
It Apologizing doesn't seem like enough.

Since when is my Bible a diagnostic manual

I propose a cure.

A cure, not for the human condition,

but for treating it like a disease.

Thinking of naming it "gratitude."