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 The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth 
 the vengeance; he shall wash his feet in 
 the blood of the wicked.
Psalm 58 It was the fortieth year since Buchenwald: two thousand Jewish refugees in Sudan starved while Reagan visited the graves of Nazis.
CBS paid off Westmoreland for their rude disclosure of his lies and crimes: he had killed thirty of the enemy, let’s not forget, for every one lost us: he was owed something.
That year, though, no terrorist could touch God’s work in Mexico and north of Bogota: an earthquake here, volcano there, and numbers do not signify the dead, each corpse incomprehensible as to the widow Klinghoffer her Leon, shot, dumped overboard as if to make a point.
Westmoreland said, the Viet Cong could be indentified from the attacking aircraft as all personnel in uniform below.
Their uniform, he told us, was the native dress.

Poem by Brooks Haxton
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