The mornings shot out

The mornings shot out one after the other like bullets from a Gatling gun some invisible hand keeps cranking away. Shot into the day, stepping down the stairs, forward into the kitchen—every action an object, every object like a metaphor for something more—but not. Heart to Heart and Silk. Subways underwater in New York City. Airstrikes in Iraq leading to the same overwhelming question they always lead to: civilian casualties? U.S. reports "No." Iraqis point and say, "Yes." Falling into the words of the sick collage poem of the day. Who wouldn't want to climb back into bed, get some more shut-eye? Me now I know I'm sleeping even when I'm not. Most of the time. Most of the time. Most of the time. Dervishes. Whiplash. Static. Words. Fly. Filter. "Flicker, flicker, flicker, flam—pow. / Stairways scared and death rules there." Slippery curves under the swerves of a consciousness. Abstract brooding. "Boring officials" the news reports. "Boring officials." As if. An outrage. Who wouldn't want to climb back into bed? What is your Everest? What is mine? Vaughn tugging on my arm. "Can we play a game now?" She has setup a picnic on a colorfully spotted blue quilt in the green-and-brown living room. She serves me "strawberry black tea" in a plastic white cup. I alternate sipping at that and sipping at the English Breakfast Tea in my real brown mug. She wants me to eat the hamburger and chicken and corn on the cob. The chocolate muffin, the carrots, and even the French fries—or else I won't get my blueberry cobbler. Sitting with her on the floor, back still sore from taking my old dresser out of the house and to the dump two days ago, mind returning to the news of the war. If one more child dies by our mistake—our government's mistake is all of our mistake—fear some miracle will shake all of our beating hearts to fall out of our asses to the earth. Isn't that the way zombies are born? Or a heroic age, perhaps? Meanwhile, I've brought my empty mug to the sink, sat down to type this out. Vaughn in the living room singing to her mom, "To-gether / for-ever. / To-gether / for-ever." Over and over in her beautiful little voice as yet untouched, for the most part, by the ways of the world.
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Re: "collage poem of the day": a collage poem of mine from this morning has been posted over at 3by3by3.