Traveling Death Salesman

I can't sleep. Or, I can and did for three hours but I continue waking into a Stephen King nightmare too real to ignore because I feel isolated in this quagmire of hopeless history. In this my collective nightmare, President Trump goes to Saudi Arabia like Mr. Smith goes to Washington, bold as an August justice day, to sell 110 billion dollars of U.S. manufactured ballistics in this heart of Middle East thirst for violence-- like selling dope to jonesing crack addicts. This deal is signed in the blood of our children then celebrated in full glare of multi media spotlights with blood dripping off our chins and hands. This is a really sweet success for climate health and freedom fighters and, oh yes, our wealthy industrious friends who rake in their riches on the strong back of capitalism's vaguely cannibalistic WinLose addictions. This nightmare continues on to Israel where Jewish leaders wait until our blood-stained ambassador of international arm-sales corruption turns his back before at last declaring their alarm, echoed at his next stop in the Vatican where even this home of history's Crusades finds such dark triumphalism a bit too treacherously much. Yet, as often as I awake within this bloodshed bacchanal blaring with unseemly deep night trumpets I also wake to total BusinessAsUsual silence here in this U.S. home. Here it feels alien accepted that this is whom we have near bloodlessly become, crack and frack and oil addicts selling our preferred markets of death in exchange for oil or cash, our democratically held self-esteem so low we cannot remember our lowest common denominator used to be a shared multiculturing Golden Rule. We have better stuff to sell for hope of light not deadly despair. So here I sit in the middle of this night's terrifying domestic silence, wide awake with guilt about such dark leadership we have loosed in a troubling Earth longing for even just one drop of climate sanity. 110 billion dollars re-invested. Ours to grease these well oiled wheels of military industrializing tycoons even General President Eisenhower warned us against. I guess healing our planet and our extending brother-sister relationships will have to wait until all our guns and oil, bombs and hate, soldiers and their innocent children are gracelessly gone. I doubt that dawn will ever come again, yet worry what new macabre celebrations in vampire cannibalistic capitalism may appear across our morning screens, knocking on and out and through our back doors while our children sleep in too short innocence. 110 billion for nihilistic death and terror sales and not one entrepreneurial peep in protest of sacrilegious prancing. It is this screaming silence of abject immoral despair that continues awaking me, hoping I might see midnight lights of kindred nightmare souls haunted by such dark blood business baldly broadcast as if to help us better sleep. I toss and turn alone while other childlike immigrants on Earth sleep through 110 billion bloody nightmares.