The Iraqi Cantos~ Iii. A Mental Game Of Chess Poem by Aaron Graham

Time is abstract, time is linear, has no form, no fixed construct.
Time refuses to lengthen for man. Within man
Between there is space to unfold time’s spirals.
Elongate seconds’ spiroid cartography to fill the void
Where seconds’ deepen and become timeless: apart
From reality, a part of reality, apart from man, of man
A second will pass though it seemed a month when trapped.
Here, here in your mind’s eye rejoice for saving seconds
Not staving man’s death, live eons in empty space
Unable to effect or best time effect anything
Wisdom amassed from many thousand lives, fills
Even this bottomless void. You’d despair were you to see
A Second’s depth. Gaze over abyssal brink: listen, look, feel
In your mind’s eye. Reflects the abyss in a second’s spiral-
Pointmass. Passes from time into infinity’s drift: as mind
Affixed, seals eyes as you leave the void of a second.
Enter the brief insignificance of time temporal. Leave
Vacant the void. Innumerable experiences compressed
Reverted to the seconds, source of each sense’s survey
Of experiential scenes. Distill wisdom from thought,
shrink wisdom to fit seconds elapsed in time’s construct.
Lifetimes blur, born of nanoseconds, to ethereal flickers.
Enter time and leave devoid the space once cloyed.
For man can stand but a fraction of reality. Yet that instant
Specters, Fictions, sirens, past revelations fill, dominate.
My mind’s eye: fixated by probability and fate on fantasy.
Tied by trivialities, Enchained in Irrelevance: Seen in clarity
Unrivaled in reality, import surpassed by even epitomic frivolity:
Mind’s eye slows to a frame crawl the Hummvee tires
Spewing silicate daggers, a demon unearthing itself from its
Sandy prison: dual tires scything jagged rents, as they spin, spit sand.
and barrel towards the river, furiously, never, reaching 38kmph.
60 wouldn’t have done it either, even slower, the Hummvee hit the
Food palates. Images freeze, skew, reorient: to aid my Mind’s eye,
Focus so intense the scene blazed, branded, scared my mental retina.
Eternal specters outlines from a moment months past, mostly forgotten
Contribute an indelible, arcane, epitaph of meaningless mania thereafter:
Faded-blue, heinously centered, label; stamped across food-palate-proxies
Pressed into service as launch pads. Words I won’t forget, yet absent meaning:

“Property of The United Nations” *Authorized use only*
UNSECC/UNICEFF: Oil For Food Program.
Unauthorized use Prohibited by Federal Law.

Along with the manifests of the support-strut-connex-boxes.
Which were never opened, yet I know, its still meaningless,
Psychic perhaps, but certainly a vacuum of meaning.
I am even aware of the pejoratives used by the Jr. Enlisted
Venture capitalist who had procured and listed the manifest
Items. Labeled “Souvenirs.” “Acquired” from the voluntary
Coalescing” and “Brief interview” of individuals said to be
“Moderate, ” Muslims. “On Holliday Outings” despite absence
Of any holiday, and month before an Islamic one. Visiting:
Ramadi, Tikrit, Basra, and Najaf Belue. To relax from Chaotic
Situations and feeling unsafe in Yemen, Oman, Qatar, Bahrain,
Abu Dhabi, Egypt, or UAE. Remarkably, the chaotically dangerous
Places requiring they seek respite. All claimed ignorance of the
Existence of any group or ideological movement known as:
Islamic Jihad, PLO, Feta, Hamas, M-ramp or Dragoon STAAAMs
Which one can not fault them for, as they obviously spent their days
Becoming experts on every caveat of Geneva Convention, POW, and Detainee
Accords, Current Benchmark precedents relating to “ AL IDHR”
Noncombatant Extradition Treaties, Roe’s, P.P.E.s, rank structures.
Uncovered methodic tenants for the politically motivated, orchestrated
Genesis of the Perpetual Red Tape Holocausts and The Systematic
Genocide in store for the Junior Enlisted. Carried out soft-spoken senate
Chambers and exclusive DC Martini Bars. Executed on the other
Side of the world. The inevitable fate solders without bullets face.
Confessed by the enemy in Perfect-Sand-blown-clear,
Kings-formal-English. The sort of language cultivated only
In Pupils of the best PhD’s of Oxford, Columbia, and Cambridge.