Our true religion is beyond gods in scope,
and we’d have any deity in our crosshairs
if they resembled a dark-skinned male
or had an Xbox account. It’s all a game. Is it?
“I don’t know—I just fly the drone.”
We worship the drone.
We worship the Tsar Bomb, the glock, and the Kalashnikov.
We worship compassion when it’s convenient,
but it’s usually not.
We worship the skeletons dressed like men
so we can thank them for the spittle they let us lap up
from their drooling maws.
We worship ourselves, but not very well.
We worship apathy, and waiting out the clock,
saying “things have got to change”
like it’s more than a shout in the street.
We worship PRISM, ECHELON, Section 215, Google, Apple,
and somehow simultaneously Edward Snowden.
We worship crawling death with the bliss of removal.
“We are bled. Now they will bleed.”
Fingerprints in the desert whisper into the wind,
digging out bullets from Facebook accounts
and ambiguous meat of mother and fetus,
still-warm throat-cut sacrifices on alters
standing taller and holier than any other.
The sun burns for us and our cathedral;
Night-vision raids will carry us from mourning
to see that there’s blood on the doorframe
and lightswitch, but none in our chests,
and surprisingly, none falling from the sky.
“How can a war like this ever end?”