living in propagandistan

riding a spiral, out of control, descending

                   in tighter and tighter circles, never ascending,

                                                              innocence ended.

from the book graveyard, a lone star reflects

                   in dying eyes caught on grainy black and white:

                                                                    the king is dead.

the odor of blood in streets, cities, and jungles mixes with

                   the sweet smell of magnolias and orange blossoms:

                                                            princes don't die in bed.

conscription ends as the actor's morning trickles down

                    to raise some boats while most sink into misery...

                                                                    truth transcended:

work walks from north, south and east across borders, carrying

                    productive futures away, leaving promises of global 
                    villages:

                                                                         burgers flipped.

mercenaries man virtual war machines grinding stone huts 
                    to dust; poppy fields wave in red, white, and blue, 

                    propagating the dreams

                                                             living in propagandistan.

chinito and african take the dice from old white men

                    and roll to see who divides, and eats, american pie:

                                                                   the party's over, man.