The River

The palm leaves along the river look like an inviting park ground or a cool place to have a fair. “A house would look great right there” The camels are no where like the scenes in your mind almost like epcot of Iraq that you’ll visit 20 years the future, with your kids who are not born yet and where the pump houses are really restrooms and beer gardens with cheap golden exlire waiting for you once you get off the boat, visit the local sheiks and farmers who still, after four years play the part so well -staring at you like they did many years ago- when you we re a culture was an highly alien organism conducting wave running ops under the light of the morning sun, yet the songs, the descriptions are different from what you remembered. There is less trash and dogs. The stares you never forget. Unforgiving, stupid and unremarkable gazes. No sign of even a twitch of reason behind their eyes. You stare back for a moment and then look away as if you would any animal you’d see in its native environment. Grazing Buffalo have more personality than these humans with their hands on their hips. They won’t go back to work, even after a few minutes. They’ll just continue the staring contest. They are waiting for you to do something, without you knowing- otherwise there is little human contact without the initial wave ops. In years to come the people will talk about the boats and they will speak of the engagements like great battles by the gods. They will point to the damages still evident in the pump houses and trees; “Here we met the enemy –I shot many rounds and they shot back many rounds and with their guns that streamed out bullets, like spraying of a hose with water, they missed us, and we hid in the bushes while they snaked away –Away ,away far away back to their techno world of big breasted shiny woman and they’re insistent preoccupation at being gods in everything they do”. Who will remember us?