The violence of the clash left less blood than I remember the filtered light in the photo only showed sepia splattered marks. The faint smell of love was all I saw before me. Her hands, as mother, were statured and skyscraped towards the heavens. Obama was responsible for this some thought; Teens who started adulthood early and lost loved ones because of second hand US weapons trafficked through mountains and sand, through waters and on trailer beds-- here, he was responsible; the approval scribbled over foreign military sales agreements, sheets signed by clandestine three letter organizations. It was not the banter of today, but the audacity of her repose that spoke directly to God and to those fleeing and searching for loved ones like maggots feasting and like gnats annoying. The flies were happy to spread malaria and implant their larvae in all that was left behind. The roar of Red Crescent trucks flew through the afternoon that looked bloody and black. Wheels dipping in and out of pot holes as the man in the passenger side screamed for crying children to move from the vehicles path.
In my hand there was a photo scented in blood, Presidential conjecture rooted in the policy that caused a boy to die and his mother to hold him. The warlords which convened over the sands and mountains saw nothing more than a reason for solidarity, I saw nothing more than an AP approved image. The rebels arrived in used Russian jeeps supplied through Afghanistan trade routes and sported all the wears of a mixed infighting, the zeal still etched anew onto faces and the tide of a young faith turning bitter. Stories curl like old toes. The gout of conjecture whether presidential or otherwise is still made possible by bureaucrats who well at bars and who think America is a-okay. Still, we have our doubts in other towns and in other towns we ask why the elections results cannot turn a tide or will they ever turn the blind eye. This is the place where the network stood and the place where smoke and smote rise...lifelessness produced by him, enacted by you, and sensationalized by us. The goose was cooking in a copper pot in Whales, the Lamb shank was next on the menu after the mixed green salad. They lived across the pond but we’re milli-seconds from voice contact if the need be. It was the electoral rhetoric which hung in their voices and the theorems of predecessors that brought them to eat dinners slow and deliberate. They have incited the next tide of wood be doctors and lawyers to flee the yule of school in America and Europe and to hate for experiencing the dance in splattered blood, streets full of limbs and the heat of crushed cement dust pressed unto sweated and wounded skin.
The photo was warped from where I held it, still I was paid to be unwashed and hard. I was paid to editorialize the current events and to trolley home the facts as pixeled images ready for press. The site began to smell of blood, vomit and urine. The casualties were paying their last tides to the warlords and to god, they were passing now, through my breath and palms. They were making me realize that this was wrong or at least steeped in a sentiment that was foreign to where I was standing. War is judgment and a proposition of resources labored together in competition. Teens were made to believe and joined as recruits overflowing with the solace. The hallow day soon to be hallowed descended to a nothingness, after the loss the feel of a freshly used rifle would sate any misfortunes that god granted and that this day might have dealt. Others held the hands of crying young and waited for the Crescent’s help.
Stitched, stapled or scored for mass consumption, distributed on Newsprint and made available for 6:30am de-briefings. This image that I’ve taken, that is clutched in my hands will stream throughout every major metropolis, it will ride FCC regulated microwaves and be reproduced in a million different ways in a million different cities. I smell today of piss, blood, and hurt, the child died his mothers garments billowing tattered and dusted over with debris. Still I shield myself from the wounds at shutter and witness. This image testifies that he lived and that before this day he was alive. This shutter saw no reason to eulogize his actions or his person but somehow I get credit.