Easy/Hard
by Ian McLeod
“We choose to go to the moon…and to do the other things, not because they are ____ but because they are ____…”
Bolshoi!
It’s huge:
the deluging
cacophony
of cascading
centrifuges
giving the Locusts
of Death
their new stings.
He was the pale horseman.
Hell followed with him.
War was easy.
Peace was hard.
The General should have said:
“The end,
the end is near
and we are here
today to wish you
well. You all did so
well and,
hell, we think
you need a hearty round
of applause
and a heart
and a diploma
and maybe even
maybe even
a pair of silver slippers,
songs of glory, and
a fresh start!”
Peace was easy.
Life was hard.
He fought the wolves,
yes fought those wolves,
on those bitter-cold 4am
Russian nights.
Up ’til the Wolf’s Hour,
where the howling
and the mewling,
and the growling,
and the spewing
up of cheap vodka
always culminated in a dirge,
a din to Ira Hayes
in the cigarette-smoke-haze
of his sickly-pale den.
Life was easy.
Death was hard.
A .38 Special
sat, still smoking softly
beside the bed
as the officer
offered condolences to
the bereft wife and only son.
Death was easy.
War was hard.
WHAT TO DO NOW?