My daughter and I have been running while missiles streaked over head and the ground shook from exploding ordinance. She’s laughing. The entire time, I’m speaking and freestyling a work comparing war to sex, and the simulation of war to religion, with an overall theme of warning those that have only tasted the simulations of war that the real thing will kill their gods.
Well, I did say I wanted a Non-Adventure for my dreams, and that’s what I got.
I was recorded as we ran through America’s latest theme park (American Triumphs!). By the time we got to the end, my words had been mixed around, copyrighted, and played back on a constant loop for the new Surface to Air missile exhibit.
They made me sound like I was warning if the religion of war simulation wasn’t forced on all Americans, real war would break America. Also, kill foreign gods because America! Fuck Yea!
My daughter listened carefully. “That’s not what you said, Mom.”
“I know.”
“What do we do, Mom?”
“Smile and nod, while planning to get what you can. Then get what you can and get the hell out of Dodge. These people don’t want to see the truth. They rather have the lie.”
“War isn’t like this, is it.”
“Nope. War isn’t a five minute self-deception that ends with a free bowl of shrimp creole or sausage gumbo.”
“What is war like, Mom?”
“I’ve never been in it. I can’t say right. But from what I’ve seen of those who have, War is the Soul Killer. War is the Mind Devourer. War blinds the soul and takes a greasy flaming shit on the spirits of those that survive. War steals life from the living, leaving behind hollow shells of used-to-be men that are nothing but unstable isotopes of rage and remorse. War kills gods and man alike.”
I suddenly realize it is too quiet. Everyone in ear shot is watching me and listening. Overhead my (autotuned and altered to remove ethnic identification) stolen voice is singing “There is no greater way, to prove to God, that America is his chosen land… Than to crush our foes, and their demon gods, with our blessed nuclear hand!”
Stop the planet. I’m done here.
Knowing I’m in danger, I add, “That’s what the writers of antiquity would say. But then again, I’ve never been through war, so how would I know? That’s what this theme park is for, to show you what war is and how great America is at it.” My daughter played along and nodded. The crowd placated, they turned away.
Later, while having a bowl of gumbo (“No foreign foodstuff! All American!” Bowl has a stamp that declares it was made in China.), my daughter asked me how fucked were we. “We’re dead, and we don’t even know it. All that’s left is the Purging Fires to start.” She nods knowing what I’m referring to, and chews her candy.
Overhead, my stolen remixed voice drones on praising those that keep America pure and clean in deeds, in religion, and in blood.
~~~
I wake up crying. I post because the dream demands to be written. But don’t ask me any questions. At least, not while I’m sober.