after a photo by Sean Flynn
a mercenary stands by the body, knife hand
raised to the sky, crying out,
exultant, worshipful, giving thanks to
a pagan god, a sun god for the bounty
he has removed from the slain enemy
at his feet. Or is it triumph he is
proclaiming? The ravaging of endless
war yielding another dead son; bounty is
in the hunting, the fallen who can no
longer offer resistance. Soldier of Fortune
acquires a new meaning here; soldiers
having no restrictions by age, sex, infirmity,
position. Suicide bombing is a new
calling, almost like play, a child running
through seasonal rain calling out for father Ho
in a language foreign devils cannot
comprehend. Admitting the child is
the suicide, an admission of a human satchel
charge primed to go off, wasting dank
wet bars, call girl havens, one hour whore
houses, removing all from midnight itineraries.
Everyone is a soldier here, fortunes are
told by who lives, who dies.
-- Alan Catlin