Souk
Within the alleyways lay death.
The burdened bureaucrats on their lunch break
lounge in front of an orange stand
ignoring the masked face within the burnoose
snaking through the stalls.
Frankincense sticks and coffee beans
purfume the tumultuous aisles
as the figure moves the belt loop
toward martyrdom.
Heavenly maidens await
this jihad ghost
while figs and pomegranates
fly through the air and
televisions show bloody faces.
When will it end ... this mayhem,
this obscene use of beings
meant to dance and sing,
paint and create rather
than obliterate
in plastic.
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