Scott Ritter Speaks on Addiction to War
Professional warrior, you have no neck. We citizens
sit on cushioned plastic as you operate a machine
hovering in the middle of the room. You manipulate
the space like a meat cleaver, massaging your arguments
into slices for us to chew. You push and pull and lift and lower
with such ease, but our teeth are not made for meat and we are only now
learning to chew. Sadly, old warrior, your body is off balance,
your gut hangs like guilt of pre-emption. Addicted to tactic
you speak to simplify opponents and core values. Back at your hotel room
your underwear hangs from you like large leaves. You look into the mirror
your hands folded above your head pressing down
in attempt to materialize your own
core values. I imagine you as an artichoke, yourself
a stranger sucking sour meat from under the leaves of your fingers,
scratching the textured surface with your teeth, drooling.