The avenues, all lined with trees

Probably one of the most rejected poems I have, possibly one of the most rejected you'll ever read.  Woo hoo!



Approaching midnight, heat of the day still everywhere, still
stuck to everything, caught in the trees, filling these rooms,
objects pushed aside, broken, music drowned out. This is the
moment. This is the here, the now, and it really doesn’t
matter how many soldiers will die in the war. It really doesn’t
matter what war it is we’re talking about, or how many
civilians will be raped, beheaded, lined up along bloodstained
walls and machine-gunned down. The wheels are in motion.

The men you’ve elected have their orders. You will die old and
alone. Without ceremony, but this is moving too far ahead.
Quarter after midnight, rumble of thunder, distant lightning,
still no rain. Mortgage due, phone bill due, numbers never
adding up in the checkbook the way they should. Hands of
Christ caught in the whirling blades. No need for Judas. No
need for the cross. The rest of your life will be punishment enough
for whatever it is you’re guilty of. No one ever really believes in
                                                    hope until it’s too late to matter.