Blood on the hands
lnp3 at panix.com
Mon Mar 31 07:29:01 MST 2003
Blood Remains On the Hands
NY Newsday, March 30, 2003
The least blood, a small squirt when removing a needle, two drops,
that's all, no more than two drops, and suddenly it is everywhere. It
remains after all. Wipe and it returns. Look about and it is in two and
three places. Wipe those places and the blood does not go away. Two
drops appear as a needle comes out and then it is endless.
Blood from the body of a baby bombed to death in Baghdad, blood by the
pint, running onto the street as fast as a swift river, has magic in its
pure infant cells. Of course you cannot scrub the street clean because
the blood from the baby already has covered the street and is in the air.
Blood from a bombed baby in Baghdad goes over the wide choking sands and
it crosses mountains and then great land masses and then suddenly, over
a channel, it is in Westminster, in London, and people look at the
sidewalk and wonder where these large blood spots came from, and the
officer on duty in front of 10 Downing Street looks at the door handle
and worries, how did this get here without me seeing this and having it
cleaned? He has a servant rush to the door with cloth and polish and he
wipes the blood and polishes the door handles and then walks off and the
guard happens to glance at the door handle and the blood is back,
smeared bright new red over the polished handle.
The baby's blood is off to rush over the ocean, a strange red cloud
poised to rain and it floats over the green of the Washington parks and
goes down a sloping street to the State Department, where as a man opens
a car door for Colin Powell he suddenly notices blood on the door handle
and he quickly unfurls a handkerchief and wipes the handle and Powell
gets in and the car goes off and the man who held the door is left in
the driveway and he sees the red that is still on Powell's door handle.
When he leaves the car, Powell does not notice the door handle as he
touches it himself. The blood red cloud goes over the river to the
Pentagon and it suddenly pours on the car that takes Rumsfeld to an
appearance, and this time the blood is left on the door handles of both
sides. A sergeant wipes. The blood is there when Rumsfeld gets home.
The red cloud then comes down on the White House lawn and it does more
than sprinkle, it splashes the helicopter of the president and he
strolls out with his wife, his dog and his chesty walk and slight smirk
and the wife at his side is smiling, for it is the end of the week and
we are good, decent Christian people, God bless us and God bless
everybody, and as they are about to get into the helicopter, an Air
Force officer rushes up in alarm and says, please, just give us a
moment, and he has three people scrubbing so quickly to clean the blood
from the helicopter and then Bush and his wife get aboard and they fly
off to Camp David, for where else would you go on a weekend, and as they
have neglected to have two men hanging out of the windows and inspecting
the sides of the craft in midair, nobody can see the blood back on the
As they get off at at Camp David, Bush's hand brushes against baby blood
on the plane, as does his wife's.
At this hour in London, Blair arises in the middle of his long night and
goes to the bathroom to try and wash this blood off. He couldn't do it
before he went to bed.
In Washington, Rumsfeld stares at the red splotches on both his hands
and Colin Powell calls out that there must be something wrong with the
soap because it does not get the blood off his hands.
At Camp David, Bush notices blood on his right hand and he goes to the
bathroom to wash it off and he holds his hands under the water and rubs
them with a bar of soap and then puts them under the water and he takes
them out and holds them out to dry with a towel. He glances at his hands
and sees the blood of the dead baby is bright on his fingers. He mutters
and washes the hands again.
He will do it again. Again this year and then next year and through all
the years because the blood remains forever on the hands.
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