At War With My Neighbors Over The Orange Man

Dear Wife,
I’m going out into the trenches
They called me up.
They said I had a choice,
but that they needed me.

They said this was a civil war
where the friend would be an enemy,
and some of my friends may have been my enemies once.
But this is a big war, one where every shot

Others, my fellows, they ask me not to fight
I know even you wonder.
But this, this, oh dear Wife,
is a cause deep down in my heart.
One I can’t avoid.
One that’s calling me from years of morality, of religion, of inner truth.

They are angry, oh Wife, so angry.
Angry that I’ve committed to taking down the man in orange
in my own small way,
the man who wants the nuclear codes
to lord over the world.
And laugh at those who fell
for his guiles.

I don’t want to fight,
to see my friends in enemy territory,
with wounded looks
as we battle.

But the orange man is roaring,
and his minions are crawling,
to do his bidding,
as the migrant cries,
for fear his family will be taken
by the “task force,”
and the abused women,
the words her abuse,
as the orange man screams,
at them all.

And so my friends,
they don’t see,
or know,
that they’re soldiers for the orange man.
They think they lead him,
as he walks them like dogs through the dung-filled streets,
of his words.
Every time he speaks,
they follow him
into the gutter.
All the while,
bringing down the rest.

Men of God,
whose words salve and calm,
have become covered in grime,
taking a bayonet,
and stabbing their beliefs.
What does God think of their words?
When Satan revels in them?

Family men and women,
fathers, mothers, grandparents, aunts, uncles,
caring for the defenseless their life,
put in the trenches,
to endanger every defenseless group,
in their nation.

The good people of the world,
at the hands of the orange man.
Their own hands,
once clean,
now carrying shit.
As the world

Dear Wife, they’re calling me,
dear Wife, they’re asking me,
to go to war,
to fight my friend,
to battle my neighbor,
to divide,
and conquer.

“They” are no one.
“They” are the voices that won’t leave me,
the truths inside of me,
that won’t stop their chatter.

And so to the battlefield I go,
not knowing how this ends,
or even how we’ll get there.
Knowing the friends will never see me the same again,
if we remain friends after the war,
knowing they feel betrayed, hurt, singled out.

But Wife, at least you know,
that I love them,
even in war,
even in anger,
even as we fight in the streets.

For they are the prisoners,
the victims,
no different than any others,
who will be hurt just as much
by the orange man.
The con man.

They can’t see.
They may never.
They may direct the hate to the battlefield.
But that does not mean,
that the fight can’t be had.

The fight must be had.

For the orange man roars,
and rears his ugly head,
in his last stand of defiance,
as he dances gleefully over our battle,
knowing it is for him,
and if he wins
there will be many more.






4 responses to “At War With My Neighbors Over The Orange Man”

  1. Alex Blair Avatar
    Alex Blair

    As a Scot, I hesitate to say anything as I feel it isn’t my business……but, actually, it is, as this will affect everyone. So good, Elad. So good. Just one thing……is it not a secret ballot? I don’t tell anyone how I vote, unless I strongly want to, so unless you want to, you don’t have to tell your friends…..but I suspect that this is way more complex than that……

    And that reminds me that I still have not done the necessary online ticking of boxes to make sure I still have my postal vote. Must remedy that.


  2. Lisa Andrew Avatar
    Lisa Andrew

    Greetings to every one that is reading this testimony. I have been
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  3. Adam Manowar Avatar
    Adam Manowar

    I want to argue with some of what is said. But, I learn from the past. You will block me. Because this was never about an open forum for discussion. I think people know that by now. Well, most people, and maybe only of those read this — not write this — are at least honest enough (given the two parties). After all, they are simply loyal consumers, not the artist who, like all great artists (and thinkers, visionaries, important voices) in history, did the only thing more open than welcoming criticism and dissenting views — they censored it. Why? Because learning comes from pontificating; writing screeds — listening is for those too mute to have what to say, is that not right? Done so they could feel better about themselves and be Giving with a capital G in the way that they decided is Generous with a big G, not anyone else. And that includes God (big G, again). So, all there is to say is that this blog is, if not premised on, then at least bolstered by, dishonesty. How disappointing. Now…predictably block me and blame (read: martyr; you and your entitled victim have my pity, don’t worry) yourself overtly — disingenuously (look it up) — while clearly blaming me in a subtext so explicit that it violates laws and norms of modesty. Was this necessary to say? Of course not. Just like this blog. Which in a more corrosive way, is more harmful and not actually empowered by such bumper stickers such as “freedom of thought” and “open dialogue” slapped across it’s soapbox that no one dare stand on or come to close lest they threaten a coup, which is not anything more than exposing this for the fiction it is, not some voice for the emotionally damaged and religiously disenfranchised (inwardly to outwardly so), victimized by the system yet, in their ethos (and only in ethos) still seek authenticity.

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