• In the shadows cast from the lamp half on,
    That screen leers at me from it’s bloody perch.
    I try to sleep but the face in my mind wont let me.
    The pain in my hand is a poor shield. My knuckles
    Raw and red,
    First from the concrete, and now porcupined by the glass from the TV,
    Are still not enough to pull me away.

    I just want to sleep. I just want
    To fall into that temporary oblivion so many poets
    Who had never died likened unto death. But the eyes.
    The eyes in the screen,
    In my mind,
    Leering at me from that face.
    No one else can see them. They refuse to let me go.
    Later, as I walk down the street trying
    To outrun the eyes that everyone knows but no one sees,
    I find the refuse of this great nation lying in the grass.

    Someone tossed aside their home made bong.
    All I can see of what it was is Coca-Co-
    The rest is just a dark blur of carbon and a bit of Santa Clause,
    His beard gone, his inane
    Smile glaring at me from the unkempt median.

    This is my country.
    This is where I live.
    This is the byproduct of my people, those who are supposed to be my peers.
    Why should they judge me?

    I move on, thinking of thinking
    About something, but actually just avoiding thinking
    Of those damned eyes.
    Oh.
    They're back.
    What else? What’s here? An empty pack of cigarettes, a
    Used condom, and…
    What’s this? A flower. A single little white
    Flower in all this muck and grime
    That no one sees anymore.

    I move closer to it trying to reason why
    It’s the only thing here still growing right, the only bit
    Still a part of… something.

    I finally get up to it, and realize that I’m not alone.
    Here’s another thing seldom seen but known by all.
    As I stand here contemplating this
    Living cast off of a society of soccer moms, and beer bellied dads,
    He rolls over in his sleep,
    Crushing the flower.

    For a moment I’m so angry that I could kill this
    Bit of human garbage,

    But what’s the point? The flower’s still crushed. Chuckling
    Softly to myself I begin again my walk,
    And the eyes follow.

    The eyes staring at me. Staring at the world
    In a silent plea for someone to remember, but no one even sees.
    No one sees
    The dead eyes of this murdered child because she’s not
    American.
    If she were I wouldn’t have seen her
    Exploded body staring at me
    On the news, squeezed between the water skiing dog, and the weather.

    It would have been first.
    It would have been seen.
    She wouldn’t be haunting
    Me now because she’d have an entire nation
    To remember her and hunt down her killer,
    Rather than an entire nation as her killer.

    I start the long walk back home and realize
    That I’ll need to buy a new TV.
    Spend, spend, spend. Even in this I
    Do what they want.

    Ow.
    Maybe I should see a doctor about my hand.
    Maybe I should pull out the glass…
    What does it matter? At least I have
    The choice.
    At least no one’s dropping bombs
    On my hospital because it’s supposed to be a munitions plant. At least
    My eyes would be seen.