Bravo, Bravo Young Gentlemen

The militants have come

And I am here.

David’s Star-marked behind this cage

Criss-cross death certificate.

Built to spill

the red of life.

Pushed by a gun barrel

Into the fray.

Time to take a shower

No water required.

Another oven, man

No mitts required.                               

Built to scorch.

And scream.

and scream.

 

The militants have come

And I am here.

Watching as that faint

Silver

Shiny

Cigar

comes flying down

Down

Down

And hits our land,

where the Sun always Rises.

A blinding brilliance.

Mountainous thunder and

a wave of fire.

A mushroom of smoke.

The ultimate sight.

Slowly time stops

And the wave comes closer

Closer

Closer

It passes me….

Built to be mist

and charred alive.

To scream.

to scream.

 

The militants have come

And I am here.

Holding this Luger,

bringing up the rear.

Shouting a title

Doing my job

of death.

Built to kill,

but not to be detached.

These screams I hear

Haunt my every sleepless night.

While others play cards

And talk about their children,

I ask myself:

Why this hand?

Where’s their full house?

Not given to the children I killed today.

That little Jewish boy, those eyes like my sons, those dirty clothes, those bare calloused feet, that disheveled hair, those dirty smudge marks on his face, that broken tooth, that clipped nose where some fellow countryman shoved the butt of his gun to keep him quiet, those eyes…

Too close to home.

What of me?  I am the enemy.

I do my job

But secretly I’m

built to hate myself.

Built to scream silently.

At every shot.

Every spade hitting the ground.

Every new grave.

Every excavation.

Every gassing.

Every burning.

Is my scream of rage.

My scream.