wonder what the birds think of these mad celebrations.  
and the spider in the window pulsing. 
and the moon, so delicate crescent. 
think of the shame and waste of war, the shame of the love of war, the shame of celebrating death, the shame of manufactured disaster, i think of the shame of the pompous parade of primitive patriotism, of an empire of shame exploding gaudily. 
the smoke is thick on the fire escape. 
the playing field where obomba's ghost tower looms 
is an eruption of rockets.
i think they're running out of ammo, the war will be spent soon, it can't go on, it will not stop until all the earth is burnt, it can't continue it can't be stopped, as boom after boom shakes my senses.