Once we realized no one was to blame, we re-focused
our efforts. Ex., We’re at war with North Korea:
our Lieutenant wakes us early in the morning
to stomp out a battalion of tulips. We color stampedes
over the landscape. “Take that natural beauty!” we are told to cry.
We cry. The women love it. We pin the last love-me-nots
to our uniforms. These are our trophies now.
We are flying to the Middle East tomorrow.
The campaign is suffering. Nothing can console it.
A squadron of Green Berets snuck into an enemy dune
and planted Marigolds. “Take that oceans of uncertainty,”
they whispered. The desert takes things too seriously;
in spite of all our Intelligence the flowers began
to blossom. It is awful:
hundreds of enemies now peek from the sand daily.
Sunny dispositions to be had all around. Webster was forced
to re-define arid, barren, and desolate. Now they are all
different shades of orange. The public is in an uproar.
The government scrambles to respond.
It is my unit’s job to rub out these anomalies:
slices of tangerine, inklings of pumpkin seed,
Cadres of carmine conspiring on the petals
just below our boots, defiant to the last drop.
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