FreeWrights Peer Review™

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The Kill Company Photographs

The three photographs of the men
soon to be body-bagged are similar:

a dusty young Muslim kneels or rests
on his haunches, his hands unseen behind
his back tied with black plastic zip ties,
in front of a rough cement or adobe wall.

A black-gloved hand of a U.S. soldier
in camouflage dress thrusts down
a rectangle of white paper of jotted
data by the man's head. Placed

in front of each, the same disassembled
automatic weapon with ammunition clips
as if the three played "hide the bottle"
in their dishdashas. The stage

props provide the first inkling
all was not right with this '06 op
to kill "bad guys" near Samarra, Iraq.

Christopher T. George

Our three for the month:

Chris George

The Kill Company Photographs



The three photographs of the men
soon to be body-bagged are similar:

a dusty young Muslim kneels or rests
on his haunches, his hands unseen behind
his back tied with black plastic zip ties,
in front of a rough cement or adobe wall.

A black-gloved hand of a U.S. soldier
in camouflage dress thrusts down
a rectangle of white paper of jotted
data by the man's head. Placed

in front of each, the same disassembled
automatic weapon with ammunition clips
as if the three played "hide the bottle"
in their dishdashas. The stage

props provide the first inkling
all was not right with this '06 op
to kill "bad guys" near Samarra, Iraq.





Bernard Hamel

the revolver


ants, rats, spiders. architects of industry.
the buzzing of skeletons hung in light bulbs, as the current struggles.
ghosts for nightlights.

a clock coughs up the music. the piano grinds its teeth. it’s past midnight somewhere…

pink sweat slicks, patches under armpits. cracking walnuts, I knuckle.
broken spine, cramped legs, a crooked joint. a practical end to hard words.
the insignificance of this sentence.

I straighten the finger, my own trigger, to turn the trick of the revolver
and present it at the temple of my conflict. aimed at no small matter
/dwarfs crouched under stairways.

my bubble pops an open rose to bleed the cracks. victims of sound. slamming doors
in empty rooms. dead sex and old perfumes. flowers of smoke stick like wallpaper, freezing
captions of caricature in which I fill myself.

overblown quiet thunder. dipping needle and spoon in soup bowls. the stuffing hollowed
nights are written on.

trying to catch lightning through paper clouds. squeezing cigarettes between burnt out
ashtrays and the echoes of angels drowned in whiskey bottles.

the room spins this merry-go-round guessing at exits.



Steve Meador

Lightning Cure



Lightning doesn’t frighten me,
even knowing its power can split molecules,
reduce trees to ash, flip off the life switch.
It is the beauty of fireworks in reverse,
the ugly of scorched earth.
I fear other things less potent,
cancer, Alzheimer’s, stroke,
but would rather face lightning than those.
Mounted on the bronze horse at the fairground entry
I would thrust my flea market samurai sword
into the sky,
ride like Cardigan leading the charge of the light brigade
or J.E.B. Stuart in a thunderous Confederate raid.
Maybe my grandmother had similar crazy-like thoughts
when she was found wandering in promising weather,
far from the nursing home.
Perhaps she wanted to be Joan of Arc or Zenobia,
but couldn’t remember the street
that corralled the bronze steed.