Heads In The Sand.

Heads In The Sand.




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Somewhere deposited in

five hundred and seventeen
rectangular boxes lie,
the shattered remains
of dessicated dreams.

White mold covers
red and blue

mottled flesh,
in dank darkness

cloaked in silence.

More arrive weekly
dead-exed home in planes,
red-exed on mortality lists,
while politicians pontificate.

Endlessly pondering
the most delicate ways
of extricating the rest
of the live fodder still there.

Meanwhile in

snug, fetid spaces,
the lost ones are

slowly falling apart,
thanks to a futile

war in Iraq and


Think about it.

Not in any Foxed

up glorified spins
nor like the spins

they took as shrapnel

stole their breath.

but in real terms--

Can you smell

the stench of it all.

Not from the

Ground troops returned
beneath American soil,
but from the foul mutterings

of our past and present leaders
with their heads

still buried in the sand.


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