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The Scrambler
art-literature-music/arte-literatura-música
Not Sleeping

There is so much life,
before, and then

What happens in between the short
period of time,
when the pin is pulled,
the trigger is squeezed,
metal flies through the air, and
strikes flesh.
Does time slow down, just
before death?
Is the prior life recognized?
Realized, reflected on, magnified, no.
Discarded.  Tallied.
A crescendo, then to the climax,
Accent, burst, strikes the skin, running.
Drips the blood, on the street, in dying’s
hair, on the hands of a screaming, and
terrified soldier, medic, who’s own life, eyes and heart
will have to bear this memory of these series of
moments gone awry.  
War, always over there.
News, over here.
It’s time for dinner.
Time for bed.
Please, turn the radio down.
Today’s news makes me sick.
Look away.
Thoughts of Africa

Is the weight of my life worth more than another less known?  Is it deemed heavier, of more value, more
prestigious or consequential, than another’s head holding the same amount of eyes, heart and mind?
If no, then yes, you are correct.  If yes, then, who do I owe this gratitude?  My graciousness should exceed
my knowledge, or realization, of such a fact.  But this graciousness goes no further than an inconsequential
and momentary thought of the dead, dying, and slaughtered.  
The thought comes and passes like a glimpse of a night’s moon.  Bright light shows itself for an instance
on a sheet of darkness, but the darkness of night prevails.  
Closed eyes until morning, when it is the warm sun that blankets me, coddles me, and helps me forget
about the night.
Again and again, I choose to forget, and embrace the weight of my comfortable life.
*Ben Kyler lives in San Francisco, CA.