Have we won
or are we just going home
with that thousand mile stare?

The stench of war,
a fungus in our nostrils.
Every muscle clenched
for ambush in a mist of venom.

Snow leopard shadows follow
down the Hindukush mountain.
A fly-encrusted camel is covered
in mounds of maggots.

Fiery parabolas of tracer bullets
arc from the mountainside.
We zigzag down ruts,
dodging cascading boulders.

A land where you can’t tell a friend
from foe, after we train him to fire a gun.

People are starving, yet five pounds of heroin
fetches one million.

Antediluvian warlords with stones for eyes
sew your genitals in your mouth
if you betray your Islamic brothers.