WAR REPORT 7
april 20 easter 12:03pm
after gourmet lunch softboiledeggs in wine
diced olives n pickles in wine wid crackers n toast
marinated salmon on other toasted breads salads
legs of lamb (l lb. each) cheese sandwiches w/chicken gravy
orange juice w/champagne oj w/vodka strawberries
british special forces seated wid me napkins silver utensils
quiet sidearms/pistols sharpknives shakespeare’s sonnets
2 million shiites coming hyr today gaiety suffering self-sacrifice
email flash from miss reiki in san francisco
to mr. saki in najif wid grand ayatollah ali sistani
subject: a passion for u
oooooooi m walking to all of u wid mists on my lips. a prayer for
healers. we cannot hide behind ourselves. “lord, make me an
instrument of your health: whyr thyr is sickness let me bring cure;
whyr thyr is injury, aid; whyr thyr is suffering, ease; whyr thyr is
sadness, comfort; whyr thyr is despair, hope; whyr thyr is death,
acceptance n peace. grant that i may not so much seek to b justfied
as to console; to b obeyed as to understand; to b honored as to love...
for it is in giving of ourselves that we heal; it is in listening that we
comfort; and in dying that we r borne to eternal life.” this reporter
goes out to greet his flowers n give thanks for brunch. st. francis
comes so easily to me today, as the lilies of the valley r resurrected
from the soil of the earth each year wid the daffodils n garlic n
onions n me so far. so far i‘m living. i m living n no 1 knows how
holy u r n eternity in me in this sobbing decimated civilization.
the horses have headaches n roam wid solemn children awaiting
the rain tonight. the imams r begging for me to leave n, at the same
time, rewrite the doctrines of the koran of brotherhood. most of the
wars in history have involved these islamic pepls who cry for hrs n
yrs. they need to discard their redrobes for blue n adopt an outlaw
caliph who listens to problems n dont whip em so bad in thyr souls.
not a general or engineer (but get the lights back on) but a martyred
pianoplayer who improvs rumi n yeats je suppose. lately the pepl
have had to eat the animals in the national zoo. 1 tiger n 1 bear r left
n i will write to fla. to send some crocs n minn. for wolves. how
they’ve been nailed by saddam n the sun n ice! soccer is perilous hyr.
tennis, which was my bastion n relief n ministry throughout ecole, is at
zero in baghdad. no balls. no racquets. no courts. it is wartime isn’t
it, though i’ve seen reruns on bbc of wimbledon n arthur ashe my
american hero. this is a vague planet, sir. i m a client to hypnosis.
today’s crucifixion has led me through mass graves wid a dusty cross-
pen on my shoulders. i’m in pain but thyr is no pain. thyr is only
light on this other level. i see angels. it may b the champagne.
so many delirious bestial men from whyr drinking from my hands. i
want to run a marathon to the baghdad brothels n clean em up but
nails r in my bones. criminal authors on either side of me already green
n dead. i love em. i’ve not read anything but menus for pity. stitch my
sides to their sides n let us flee to heaven together wid amorous
suicides. r brides will b bloody marys n we will b jongleurs. so many
rabbis have found me today saying nothing but momentary things on
this hill. death n dying. life n living. my crude superficial visas for
travelling wid these armies of mourning n goodcheer. we must shed r
genetic diplomas n just await some posthumous miracle or symphony.
every exile is welcome back n thyr can b no leader. continual reveille
n tomato markets wid all the pots returned to the national museum.
don’t ask, don’t tell, just let us sleep in these arab streets until some
medicine arrives for these silent limitless children. they have been
blasted n made to weep. surround the hospitals wid garlands of
flowers that seabiscuit could eat n send my declining industrial
stocks to catshelters in newjersey or anywhyr really. i m starting
to ponder the absurd reckless theory of this unilateral feat . i’ve met
the son of lawrence of arabia in the palestine hotel n he is not at
all like the iraqi information minister or bushblair. he is doing fatal
unique transcendent watercolors of the real mayhem out hyr n faxing
em to paris. we shall collaborate on a daring notebook whyn this
crusade is over n carry on like the nile. we feel shadows wid
everything. we look beyond mirrors everywhyr. no one talks to us.
they can’t. “bah, i have sung 3 women in 3 cities but it is all the same n i
will sing of the sun. cino? o, eh, cino polneso.”oepoi would happily go
to work now if he were hyr. i would even choose to b guided upwards
n then downwards by these prophets n saints n give my blessings for
this Passionoothis being hyroofor this expensive revelryoofor this living
living livingoobut i can’t. miserere.
wCs
