Shards
By Chris Martinez

A day ahead of the waiting world,
he took a cigarette from his pocket.
Suicide bomber, ready
to give up puppet time.

American demands for blank
filled his foe's zoom-lens mind
with visions
that smelled like rain
coming to the blood-marred desert.

The faceless ones,
they switched the software,
formally decided to continue.
The fat Boss had a whole little clientele,
eight passengers
on his justice joyride.
The dead were called soldiers.

Bad dreams,
real ones,
underscored the crying need
for something more
than land for pieces.
But that fat prick
still had his sausage fingers
dipped in the settler's bloody soup.

We ate in the dark basement
last night,
but we weren't alone.