The streets of Iraq all seem the same; trash strewn around, buildings
made of mud-like
      material. Nothing is new. Time has eroded the scattered ruins, ancient
walls too stubborn

to crumble. Mosques are everywhere, holy sanctuaries. The only place
the people can
take refuge from invading forces. .50 cal turret mount. Large caliber
      rounds ready to

devastate anything that threatens me. 200 rounds linked together. The
      rounds longer than
the length of my hand. I check my M4, it’s strapped on the turret
      cover, make sure it's

ready to fire. Round in the chamber, with the fip of a switch I can
      unload 5.56mm
rounds. A taxi follows too close, I grow weary. I'm home. San
      Francisco. Awake yet I

lay. Up, driving to school, danger distant. 4th of July. M80s go off.
      I'm startled, brought
back. A spider spins its silk into an elegant web, a car races down the
straight road.

Exhaust trail follows. The TV blares its signal, illuminating the room.
      Vibrant sound explodes from
the set. A mother yells at her child. Be quiet she says, behave. An ice

cream truck drowns out all the sounds, only the sound of its melodic
      chants luring children
it's sweets.