| The lean wild dogs
don't run the banks of the tigres
in the day light
they stay hiding like cicadas
in the rubble of
last night's targets
in unfinished construction
and the half built promises
shelter and pause before the gravity strikes
at night they run the banks of the river
crooning
aboriginal
inscrutable
As they sing the air raid sirens awake
tax dollars and jet engines make you run
to your balcony
break out your Sony
and attempt thin
and one dimensional recordings
of the city
Baghdad is unstrung
in a corset of sound
murder and chaos are concussive
they don't just shout in your face
they grab you by the collarbone and blow into it
the tune is so familiar
You want to leave your skin and your body behind
what made you think you could do this
put down your superficial electronics
and be present
the air bends more than it shakes
it will push itself into everyday sounds
car doors closing
dishes breaking
engines backfiring
it will find ways to remain close to you
camouflaged and close
familiar
for all your days
In Around 11:55 a.m. on Thursday, Sept. 16, 1920, an old single-top wagon, drawn by an elderly dark bay horse, plodded westward on Wall St. It stopped about 75 feet from Broad St., near 23 Wall. Just over the rear axle was 100 pounds of TNT covered by 500 pounds of fragmented sash weights. More than 200 people were hurt and 30 killed when the bomb when exploded at 12:01 p.m. It was never determined who was responsible.
Angry men with agendas
calmly attend classes at flight schools
far far away
We define ourselves
through pastels and irises
the precision of need and pictures of grandkids
duck-taped along the rails of our arms
our definitions lost in rituals
our rituals migrate to venus fly traps
and dollar dollar bills
consumption as religion
and privilege as sanctuary
Our internal architecture is ancient rather than contemporary
we will fill the spaces within ourselves
or we will die trying
every morning
thousands of rituals of isolation
crammed into minutes
that seem too short and small
working against each other
but all trying to breathe the same note
The carbon dioxide of syncopation
are these moments really too short
are these familiar foot trails or are we just lost
can the sum of us be contained
in cotton sacks
or the nap of a flag
lost among 1000 choices
and none of them good
all the way from the west bank to the hood
Will we choose to be frank
or just pretend we're not misunderstood
how we fill in our blanks is ours to choose
how we fill in our blanks is ours to choose
our grief sits on a beach waiting all these years
painting salt tapestries on our faces
in the tracks of our tears
I regret I didn't honor you more when you were here
I regret I did not honor you more when you were here
I regret my hope wasn't greater than the sum of my fears
I hope that sooner rather than later we stop grinding our teeth
into these broken gears
My choices are greater 2 fools
I'm going to honor your memory
by letting my humanity break through
the results of conflict are only celebrated by fools
I refuse to choose war
I choose you
My choices are greater than 2 fools
I refuse to choose war
I choose you
I choose you
I choose you
Jerry Quickley ([email protected]) is a reporter, KPFK 90.7 FM part of the Pacifica Radio Network | 
Three Ghazals
