she sat on the bus across from me with her mom and little sister. the freckles...she had the greatest not quite pig tails! and her eyes were huge and hinted of mischief...
it was that day
i heard a fragment of something from the plastic radio hanging underneath the kitchen cabinet and above and near the stove.
i might have been making a sandwich for her, my wife at the time.
something on the radio, i couldn't tell what it was but my tissues told me it was not good.
it wasn't. it couldn't be.
i was supposed to meet the father of a friend for breakfast later that morning.
it was all a hurry.
and then my friend who lived in nyc started sending me pictures, there was mostly smoke.
he called and i can still remember the brokenness in his voice.
i am never offended, surprised, or moved by death.
but i am hurt by the ability of what we do to each other as humans.
once, i was asked what would i would do about the situation in bosnia.
i said, either take away all their tools or LEVEL the place.
absolutely pure destruction. enforced destruction if you aren't going to play nicely.
i still hold to the thought, being a child of war and violence.
so yea, i wanna play god. actually, god is a fucking wuss who has let herself be manipulated by stupid men.
so i'm not really manipulating.
i just wanna kill.
years later, i am only beginning to come to terms of the horrors of that morning.
and it is a lame thing to respond with violent thoughts but it is also human.
how sad is it to be in this state and to know the truth of the matter?
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