There are times I question what I am doing with the life that is slipping away from me- those times being about every hour upon the hour. I hate that question so, because my answer is always "not enough."

I don't know what to do in a world without superheroes, which might just account for my nihilist streaks.

One afternoon, this past Winter, I found myself in a mountain-less land, under a skyscraper canopy, awed by creatures great and small. On a street corner, in view of the green man and the red hand, I would shuffle to and fro, in an effort to speak to all who would pass my bridge, and not pay the toll of a moment's attention. Holding a placard emblazoned by a dying child, clutching statistics and few real hopes, the slant of the declining sun must have made me out to be a doom-saying madman.

Or perhaps I was a communist-agitator-Rockies fan, by the black and purple jacket- a bleeding-heart-liberal-intellectual-wannabe by the ill-grown goatee and glasses.

As I looked to the yonder, did our gazes ever intersect, or were they rather staring? Or had I metamorphosed into a Medusa with my support of unpopular causes, therewith hearts transformed to stone?

Of creatures passing, the faintest glance would reveal ties, and tye-dyes, nose rings, and nose hairs- the arrays of phylum and genera vast. With my simple brain, only two continue to come to mind.

In the jungles of South America, there are monkeys of distinctive hues, shapes, and proportions- properly trained one could classify them into species and breeds. In the jungles of downtown, near the Center, lack of training notwithstanding, acute observation was not possible because of the blur of the crowds. In fact, the most fascinating discovery of my trek was the distinctive screech of a primate barely seen.

"We should've nuked 'em!" And so the primate in a suit of some variety, decided to greet as well as take leave from me and my fellow protesters, all the while feigning that he had turned his head to his fellow suit to communicate those words, accidentally being audible over the urban din.

What strange repressed Freudian desires could have given rise to such a retort? An overbearing mother? Did she drop the poor lad on his head while young, stunting the growth of emotive centers in his brain? Was there a "nukem" gene that scientists could isolate and through genetic engineering repair? Was Mr. Nukem such an expert at international relations and military strategy that he thought a nuclear strike would have been beneficial to the United States? Or did it rather give him one of the simple pleasures of the lower nature of man to incite anger in those for whom he had little respect?

Just an anonymous stranger with a memorable sound bite, quite effective at his purpose, his few words being a topic of rumination for months.

What to make of the faith of Mr. Nukem? What evidence did he have that his nation was immaculately conceived? What grand tales could he tell of rights enumerated on parchment incarnated, made flesh to walk among mankind? What tales of seas walked upon to cast out totalitarian devils?

What to make of Mr. Nukem's acceptance of lies self-evident, myths contorted by the archetypes of the past, the subliminal desires of the masses, the propaganda of the politicians. When the American nation raises its hands to slayeth the Amorites, the Babylonians, the Mesopotamians, the Communists, all vengeance hath justice and Solomon's wisdom. Dareth the Babylonians strike, and Beelzebub hath gained dominion.

That the American nation gave this same Beelzebub coats of mail, spears of anthrax, becomes no matter.

For America is a vengeful god, and all who worship Baal, whose dreams harken to a past of which infant nations are unconscious- must be split by the flying swords, hoisted by metal angels.

America thinks she controls the tree of eternal progress, the tree of eternal prosperity. It is arrogance, of a most deadly brand- folly, of the most epic scale. Sunny days are followed by the cloudy, Baghdad's weather may someday be our own.

What writ gives anyone the right to play with match-sticks of the greatest conflagration, of fires unquenchable, and blood lust even more so? Infinite images of angst from the eye of the mind, how they play out in this world when we see rivers of blood, cities of ruin, shadows of the vaporized, skies pitched black, oceans inflamed- mocking adages of ages far past. Fire and water don't mix. Since tyranny and corporate-controlled "democracy" do quite easily without extinguishing either, it must be that there are merely shades of difference between the two, not magnitudes.