As Americans sit in front of television sets
watching talking heads tally deaths like baseball
scores, vultures chase doves from olive branches.
And the olive trees burn.
Through the flames the vultures wait. Another dove
is consumed and they descend. Pecking out
it’s eyes they eat greedily. Bellies distended.
Who will be left to enjoy a life made
of blood and fire?
And who but eagles could stop them?
But the eagles have strings tied to their wings.
The puppet master demands obedience, pulls the
strings and the eagles dance. They dance for fear.
Fear that their position of power will be taken.
Fear that their influence and money
will be gone.
They have no shame. Their drug of choice is
dangled in front of them like cheese on a
mousetrap. Dance little eagles, dance.
Where is your jesus? What would he say?
Where is your soul? In the talons
of a vulture.
Eagles deaths are as meaningless as doves
to vultures. It’s all the same. Carrion is carrion.
Death is death, where ever it’s found.
Turn on the TV. The talking heads have more