The Bushiad
Chapter 2: Rattling of Sabres

The Idyossey
Chapter 1- Ichor of the Gods
Chapter 2- The Price of Peace
Chapter 3- Empyre
Chapter 4- Woeful Warrior
Chapter 5- Mitzvah
Chapter 6- News Analysis
Chapter 7- Strategic Planner
Chapter 8- Aristea
Chapter 9- Last Supper
Chapter 10- Skullduggery
Chapter 11: Family Reunion
Chapter 12- Black Goddess
Chapter 13- Saboteur
Chapter 14- Glossolalia
Chapter 15- Visitation
Chapter 16- Dead or Alive
Chapter 17- Across the Border
Chapter 18- The Unraveling
Chapter 19- Summer in the City
Chapter 20- Wolf and Jackal
Chapter 21- George Gloats
Chapter 22- Surreality
Chapter 23- Kidnapped
Chapter 24- Denouement
Afterword

Comments and Email?
Click here

Want a printed version of
The Bushiad
and The Idyossey?

As February’s feverish talk of war spreads,
Nations send delegates to the great council,
Where each has his say about the looming storm
And proposes a response. The assembled
Choose sides: one calls for peace,
The other war.

They fill the vast chamber of the United Nations,
On the banks of the East River in the Big Apple,
Where the legs of the twin towers stood,
Colossus standing watch over the harbor,
Now fallen, turned to rubble, only memories
Of silhouettes and gaping holes remain.

Each delegate gives his speech,
Arguments on one side or the other.
Promised U.S. foreign aid or
Loan guarantees on purchases of
Hardware and weapons of destruction
Secure some allegiance to the holy war.

Villepin from France draws firm applause.
He draws upon the loyalty of others who enjoy
The economic benefits of working with both sides.
Colonialism having given way to neo-liberal capital,
The French pursue a policy of “no size fits all”
And apply post-modernist financial theory.

“Iraq is not a foie-gras goose,” says he,
"To be slaughtered for its fatted liver.”
“This Iraqi pot-au-feu is not yet done,
Politics gets richer while it thickens.” They
Lick their lips, salivating at the savory philosophy
And think about reservations for lunch at 21.

“The inspectors, led by Blix, need time,” he says.
“Besides, it’s almost truffle season and war
Is inconvenient; please be patient.” The
Delegates stir in their seats, after all
No one wants to wait in line for lunch. A
Recess is called for the balance of the day.

Proud Powell, sitting at his table,
Bites his tongue and tastes metallic blood,
Sips some water from his glass and swallows.
“Now’s not the time to blow my top,” he sighs.
“That French Fop and his continental buddies
Have ruined my appetite; I hate old Europe.”

Proud Powell, heroic bronze warrior
Of the Gulf war of ‘91, holds back
His bubbling fury not letting on at all
That other, grander plans were made months ago,
Long before debate in these august halls
In vain hope of finding lasting peace.

Foul Rumsfeld conceived a vile plot, to turn
The rising tide of fear and public apprehension
That flowed from 9-11 to a sour wound of hate. His plan:
Turn 9-11 lemons into lemonade, sell it to the world
To slake thirst for revenge while building
Corporate profits with the grand machine of war.

From all across the U.S. armies gather,
Men and women, battle gear, armor shining,
Organized and prepared with great tools of war,
Sent from from every city, every county, every state,
Grouped in the wine dark Mediterranean and Arabian Sea
Restless and ready for battle in long gray ships.
 
Next >