Spoken Word
Smart Bombs
a euphemism for lack of good intelligence.
by David Lloyd Whited
we’ve tried this winning hearts and minds before.
in the fairy tale the children had bullets in their
pockets. the coyote pauses to consider this
& his reflection in the puddled sky. thoughts
of rabbit shadows evade his small hunger.
something was coming through the ashes after
the towers fell, sad emptiness hanging in the
air where lives and architecture mingled their
breath. hiss of breath leaving for Afghanistan.
prosecution is impossible & only the when of death
remains a question. & sir, the wren’s heart is
larger than a ripe currant. mostly there is no
need to jump, no need to worry, no need to write at all.
not a wince of difference to be made. but work daily,
doze through the commute, pay the mortgage, watch
the stock market eat a generation’s retirement.
we stand in the rain like sheep. the interest
rate falls like leaves. it means the trees
will be bare & the winter rains will thicken the air.
everything that flies has a weakness for falling.
dragons, stockbrokers, or lawyers, it’s the same
fairy tale. bullets in our pockets, blue sky
filling with the dark storm of falling down
upon targets mapped on green screens.
I wish the trees would take over & direct the air
traffic. we send them our answer in
care packages & explosions falling Afghan
sprawl of mountains on a map of over there
some far away & once upon a time. but
there are bullets in our pockets. blood in
our clouded burning towers memory of
falling bodies tracked & rewound again & again
the muffled thump-ka-thump-whoo flash
flash thump-ka-thump there and whispered
parachutes of not enough food. hook & sigh
over there among few trees, little shade, & deeper
into caves the huddled fear & revenge pull
their limbs. muffled there on the map far.
the neighborhood rains down our shoulders’ burden.
screaming into the darkness alone, each of us
draped upon our own bones. in love with the fire
and the cats. locking the darkness outside with
her shadow. moon thing bright in sky. the cave, not
so very far away. frogs singing their last chorus.
her mind lingers somewhere between angle
and curve. a question like where does the
light that goes into a tree go? & it’s true, some
of the flowers do have spiders in their throats.
Kandahar, Kyber, Kabul, pretty names on a far map
& where do we plant the flares? how do we weigh
the damage? crowd like an amoeba.
terrorists on wanted posters. grinning like an otter.
infrared: Euphrosyne, Aglaia, Thalia. the
names of civilian victims casualties. the waste
of smart bombs’ mistaken identity.
the first war of the twenty-first century sprawls
through the decades & the postal service delivers
death & contagion. citizens afraid not to
be patriotic. demonizing the enemy as they
have dehumanized us. young enough that
dreams were still tangled in her hair. while
love looks into the mirror, midnight stitched to
the sky anthrax falling among the unwashed.
wrath of the misbegotten Osama sleeps in his dreams.
who is in the war room? and, why are they there?
joystick & green screen pulsing.
poems have been published in literary journals
throughout the United States. He has been a writer-in-residence at Bowling Green State University
and Interlochen Arts Academy, and poetry and nonfiction editor for NRG, The Medicine Bag, and other journals.
His books include >3 & 1, Poor Billy Bonney, Hollow Fox, Poemoptrics, and The Elevens (1995, Black Heron Press).
His most recent books include Wet Way Home (26 Books) and The Shadow Dance (nine muses books, 2005). Whited lives on Vashon
Island and is a Planner for the Puyallup Tribe of Indians. He is currently working on a poetry ms. tentatively titled
Olde Coyote Goes To Towne. “Smart Bombs” is from that ms.