The Rage of George
Rattling of Sabres
The Gods of War
In the Clouds
The Tyrant Flees
Out of Order
Doing the Patriot Act
The Little Prince
Ichor of the Gods
The Price of Peace
Dead or Alive
Across the Border
Summer in the City
Wolf and Jackal
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and The Idyossey?
breeze stirs the window curtain;
Despite the early summer warmth,
Foul Rumsfeld pulls the covers tighter
As if to shield himself from bitter cold.
He moans and murmurs, in restless sleep
Turning side to side.
He dreams vividly of a remote land,
The horizon sand in all directions.
Blowing grains assault his eyes
Despite his posture, chin to chest.
He stumbles blindly in growing darkness
As winds shift and swirl around him.
Among the dunes, a tent billows,
Inside, lanterns shimmer. He
Drags his feet forward, but
The sands grip his feet, they’re heavy
Difficult to lift. He struggles onward,
Finally arriving at the entrance.
He peers inside, then
Calls out cautiously, “May I come in?”
From inside he hears, “Please enter.”
Foul Rumsfeld falls inside upon a carpet.
It’s still and quiet. A lone figure
Sits, drinking from a clouded glass.
“Have some tea,” the figure offers,
Foul Rumsfeld, feeling safer, protected,
Crawls across the floor, sits cross-legged.
The cloaked figure before him,
Face concealed by shadows
Hands Rumsfeld a steaming glass.
“Where am I?” the Foul One asks, confused.
“The Tent of Allah, you are safe here.”
The hooded figure sips tea.
Winds outside are moaning, as is Rumsfeld
In his sleep. The tent flap flutters, another enters
And sits, small of stature, draped in black.
Rumsfeld becomes anxious as the newcomer
Pulls back the garment’s hood.
Her tired eyes deep pools in a young face,
Skin clear and almond-colored,
Long black hair cascading
Beside her sunken cheeks.
“I am Sabah Parat. I’m 10,” she says.
Foul Ashcroft tastes bitter bile,
And licks his dry lips. His glass
Of tea has turned gray-green,
He sniffs it and recoils as
The scent of death fills his nostrils.
The small figure is naked,
Her body scarred, bony, and bent.
She weeps, head in her hands.
“I cannot find my mother,” she cries, “I’m lost.”
She reaches for Rumsfeld, who cringes,
Afraid of this mournful apparition.
The entry curtain moves again, and
A surge of wind brings in another,
A child not four feet tall.
The tent’s air turns frigid; in bed
At home Rumsfeld turns, shudders,
Hugs his blanket tighter still.
“I’ve lost my ball,” the new guest says,
Then removes his robe, revealing
Two bloody stumps, no legs. His skin
Is shredded, white bones cracked, yet
He feels no pain, only great dismay
At his lost ball.
Turning to his host, The Foul One asks,
“Who are these children?” “Why,”
Replies the Hooded One, “They are yours.
Of course, their gruesome fates rest
In your hands alone, along with that
Of many others. Look outside.” He gestures.
His bed soaked in sweat, sheets tangled,
Rumsfeld speaks, though he still dreams,
“Dear God, it’s not my fault!” he cries
Then swallows, his throat dry. His
Dream tent opens to sands revealing
Multitudes of maimed and wounded children.
“There’s been a mistake,” The Foul One pleads,
“I’ve killed no child.” His host
Reveals the shrouded face, it’s Condi Rice!
“C’mon Rummy,” she says, “Be honest.”
The masses moan and wail, crying out
For life and love, both lost.
“You call yourself a lover, but
You're a killer,” she says, taking his arm.
“I did it all for you,” he says, enjoying
Her attention and forgetting
All the misery and suffering
Displayed around him.
“I love it when you’re macho,” Condi
Turns to Rumsfeld and leans forward
Lips parted for a kiss. The Foul One
Hugs her close, his eyes close. He feels
Her moist lips on his skin, her tongue,
As her fangs bite deeply in his neck.
Screaming he awakens. His
Panicked heart is pounding, he
Has a huge erection. Dream fading, he
Puts his hand to his neck, feels something
Wet and warm. In the dawn’s early light
He sees fresh blood on his hand.