of death and destruction
while tucking me beneath
my mickey mouse comforter,
so I might sleep without abduction
or fear of the boogieman's silhouettes.
My bottle,
a luke warm 70 millimeter shell
with a nipple attached
so I might remember where I'm headed,
the battle of a young child
walking idly towards death along a busy road
without stop lights,
instead directed by a beating drum
and the haunting wail of an armless harp player
(she plays by her feet).
He fed me gruel from military rations,
believing the tasteless paste would make me strong
and capable:
of standing on my own two feet,
breathing amidst harsh winds
and standing up against the mudslingers
whom know not why they rage.
Along my leg he tied a switch blade,
held tight by an American flag
so in school I would know
that intellect can kill
a country.
There was no recess with my daddy,
just drills,
till the day I deem myself a man
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