circa 2004

not knowing why. not knowing how. not seeing where. like cattle. they are herded out of our sight and into our sites. into an orgy of blood and limbs and guts and screams. and finally silence, their preparation for their Higher Purpose: our consumption. puddles of blackened blood absorbed by the earth. extracted and pumped into cars and bombs. our cars. our bombs. not that car bomb that exploded Some Guy a few hours ago. Some Guy is the Price of Freedom. Some Guy was left in the street, his intestines spilling out of his belly like al dente pasta in tomato sauce, wrapped around the ripe sausage of his liver. those are our guts. they are not pieces of a man. they are the coins to put in the slot machine to get a prize. they are the ingredients of a delicious stew of civilization. his death is not death, but birth: The Birth Pangs of Democracy. it is not death. we do not eat their guts.