In march the soldiers with rifles on their shoulders. out run through brambles the locals with their bundles. Off fly the envoys contemplating new ways of creating symmetry in a future cemetery. Up go the pundits explicating bandits. Clearly outworded, down go the murdered. The expensive warriors, sailing by on carriers flying Old Glory, signal hunky-dory. Far is the neighbor,  []

Bosnia Tune (1992)

As you pour yourself a scotch, crush a roach, or scratch your crotch, as your hand adjusts your tie, people die. In the towns with funny names, hit by bullets, caught in flames, by and large not knowing why, people die. In small places you don’t know of, yet big for having no chance to scream or say good-bye, people  []