Ares Considers a Career Change
I miss the old wars. Adversaries lived
within the boundaries everybody knew.
Combatants wore uniforms
like targets on their backs.
Barbarians and savages wore feathers
or frightful face paint or skin tones
one could recognize and aim for
with weapons one could feel
the heft and sharpness of in hand.
There was no bother with collateral damage—
the sack, pillage and rape were by the rules
and we all knew the rules. The winner
made the rules and carried off the spoils
in palpable silver, gold and precious stones
and the usable living flesh of livestock,
concubines and slaves. The spoils
weren't conceptual, strategic, or
a rate of growth in glossy quarterly reports.
War has gotten so much murkier. The goals
are muddied and confused.
The makers of weapons don't wield weapons
but spread sheets and data points
that track the trends and revenues. They pick
no sides and know prosperity lies
in endless skirmishes and squabbles
and the preparations for that massive
conflagration profits can't allow. The violence
becomes its own end and can never be allowed stop.
I grow tired of all this petty and inglorious
crap. I think I'll buy a football team instead.
within the boundaries everybody knew.
Combatants wore uniforms
like targets on their backs.
Barbarians and savages wore feathers
or frightful face paint or skin tones
one could recognize and aim for
with weapons one could feel
the heft and sharpness of in hand.
There was no bother with collateral damage—
the sack, pillage and rape were by the rules
and we all knew the rules. The winner
made the rules and carried off the spoils
in palpable silver, gold and precious stones
and the usable living flesh of livestock,
concubines and slaves. The spoils
weren't conceptual, strategic, or
a rate of growth in glossy quarterly reports.
War has gotten so much murkier. The goals
are muddied and confused.
The makers of weapons don't wield weapons
but spread sheets and data points
that track the trends and revenues. They pick
no sides and know prosperity lies
in endless skirmishes and squabbles
and the preparations for that massive
conflagration profits can't allow. The violence
becomes its own end and can never be allowed stop.
I grow tired of all this petty and inglorious
crap. I think I'll buy a football team instead.
|
6
favs |
821 views
7 comments |
192 words
All rights reserved. |
Author's Note
War should be starightforward for the god of war.
Other stories by Gary Hardaway
Tags
Comments
You must
log in
to post comments.
"The makers of weapons don't wield weapons
but spread sheets and data points
that track the trends and revenues."
The Masters of War - and I'm thinking Dylan - have become even more frightening because of their invisibility. Football teams and Time/Warner and Shell...
War is both fascinating and terrifying.*
Wise and wry. Well done. *
Once again, you use your poetry to make a profound statement. "I miss the old wars," is such a great opening. So much truth here, conceptual wars and "the violence...can never be allowed to stop."
War! [thud] What is it good for? Absolutely nothing! {thud thud thud] Well, except for the profits, which can buy you a football team. Even the ironies weep. *
There's no doubt a certainty and satisfaction associated with the blood tipped spear that's lacking in a spreadsheet.*
Thanks to everyone for your attention to this.