The Glory Hole by "PN"
Once upon a time I learned to enjoy
the vicarious smell of burning things,
tasting flesh in the green on green
mornings of my youth.
Carpet burned my elbows
a cool heat
whose blue eyes
sought mothers gaze in
distant muds of Saigon.
Now new affirmations in
a technicolor landscape,
deliver justice of the
the heavy rolling thunderous
death from the mouth
of a cannons meter.
Please George, fathers son who does
gods will, tell me a story of patriotic scalpings.
Burn down the homes of small families so I
may have another picture of smoke
to steam away my nights insomnia.