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Surrender to Show Business, Huffington Post Crap, Hunting Air

Paul Lojeski: “ISIS Executed Nearly 2,000 People in Just Six Months” Arianna’s rag barked, while A Whiter Shade of Pale blared in my head, and I felt kind of seasick, wanting to query those strangers passing by if we hadn’t vanquished but 20,000 in twenty minutes in our Baghdad surprise, so what was the big deal?

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Hunting Air

An armada of ships deep in space,
the last humans searching

for salvation: a breathable planet
with blue sky and the music

of waves singing forever, a planet
like the one they’d just lost.

Huffington Post Crap

“ISIS Executed Nearly
2,000 People in Just Six
Months” Arianna’s rag

barked, while A Whiter
Shade of Pale blared in
my head, and I felt kind

of seasick, wanting to
query those strangers
passing by if we hadn’t

vanquished but 20,000
in twenty minutes in our
Baghdad surprise, so what

was the big deal? Not that
those desert thugs don’t
deserve the lash and blade

but really, putting up
numbers, as if numbers
count for anything, anymore.

2 million murdered in Vietnam,
for instance. So go ahead,
light your match of outrage

at the audacity of slaughters
burning red our sad, little
planet but please, please

don’t gesture and flail
about, proclaiming yours to
be the righteous one full

of philosophical grace and
military charm, while the
others are but ghastly works

of ravenous evil here in this
dark place we’re all painting
a whiter, brighter shade of pale.

Surrender to Show Business

The actress gushed and pranced
her remodeled figure through
the rented mansion called

Mountain Pretense, reality
having been clubbed,
pulverized and shed like

snake skin. So we bowed
to new gods, shiny and
sculpted on screens stuck

in our heads, nesting, festering,
feeding us our daily bread,
our daily fear flying from

these beaten, broken hearts,
this our cowardice a most
surprising thing.

A Rare Find Indeed

A movie without a bullet hole in a head,
a body falling on a moonless night,

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a sword cutting deep and clean, a scream
shaking a dying heart. A film without

a bomb blowing up a school, without
hope drowning on a sunny day or a gang

of madness stabbing love with a blind,
flaming beast sailing across river death.

Then the chorus of rock guitars thundering
under the credits and in the crack of rifles and

hiss of missiles we hold hands in our dark
theater of dreams, in this our futureless future.

a different faith in the new year

maybe it’s time to shut up
and give it a rest.

to turn off the TV’s, stop
making movies, to cease

writing books and all
endless scribbling and

walk through the days
in silence without a word

or sign to each other,
without a glance into

our deadly eyes. maybe
cover the mirrors, pull

the drapes and in the quiet
wait for a moment of peace.

surely it will come, if even
for a second. wait for it.

What They Hear

The old listen to a different music,
music that hangs like fog over

a busy highway, shrouding every-
thing in gray mist—that muffled

sound they drift into, resting in quiet
aspect, in a slow, cool embrace.

loss of faith the in the new year

maybe it’s time to shut up.
maybe it’s time to put away
the talismans and rocket

launchers and give it a rest.
to turn off the TV’s, stop
making movies, to cease

writing books and all
endless scribbling and
walk through the days

in silence without a word
or sign to each other,
without a glance into our

deadly eyes. so cover the
mirrors, pull the drapes
and in the quiet wait

for a moment of peace,
wait for it. surely it will
come, if even for a second.

Paul Lojeski