As your eyes dart from the title
to my persian name, you might
start to tie up your mitts.
A Texan sharpshooter?
The deadliest in Iraq, with perhaps
one hundred and sixty hits?
The one who said "I don't shoot people
with Korans. I'd like to, but I don't?",
in between chews of tobacco?
Whether you're from over there,
or from right here, let me note
that I spent years in El Paso,
that I experienced first hand
that Christian rodeo, long before
the Republican decree,
before the Axis of Evil,
or the mention of Brown,
or the term PTSD.
Peering through the scope,
over and over he must have seen
the explosion of a skull
in a personal way, up close,
even if his training passed it by
to calibrate for the next cull.
And here is where I want
to draw you in, this shattering
of the subconscious mind,
which defines above all
our own heritage, wave after wave
of violence, rape, of war,
our collective, our post traumatic
stress disorder built up
and passed on from father to son.
Kyle's case, war hero, or villain,
pales in comparison
with four thousand years of fun.
He went home. He tried
to put everything straight,
only to be shot in surprise
at the height of his game,
his helping hand extended
under the intense desert sun
to a fellow comrade in arm.
The scene, precise, deja-vu,
yet devoid of all moral guise.
Yes, it's a circle of sorts.
The longer the written memory,
the slower you might give up.