It ain’t ever gonna end, is it? This thing. Cause it’s not a war, is it? Just something that never could have happened. Should have happened.

This thing. Kamikaze runs. Carnage. Death.

Looped over and over and over across the globe until we felt numb and helpless.

Heroes — dead. Fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, first cousins, second cousins, friends, strangers, everyone — dead. Strewn under the rubble, their limbs torn apart. Like their families. It ain’t ever gonna end, is it?

There’ll be more. Bombs.

Smoldering portals to hell. Wreckage. Ruins. Smoke. Bodies. Debris to sift through for remains. Bomb damage assessments. Then more bombs. Cruise missiles. Tomahawk missiles. Screaming Eagles. Desert Fox. .50 caliber. Scuds. Patriots. Flags. Parades. Then the rub. Somewhere in the middle of all this is you. The one that’s gonna have to fight this … thing. The one that’s gotta stand up to terror, fear, hate, ignorance, them, us. Who?

And the question remains. Who do we gotta put a cap in? Who do we gotta roll up on? Stab. Kill. Burn … dunno.

There’s this boy. In Afghanistan. Alauddin. I read about him in the Chicago Tribune on Oct. 17. He’s 14. His father was killed by the Taliban when he was 13 and his mother told him to go and avenge his father’s death. He trekked through Afghanistan for three days with only some bread to eat that his mother packed for him. He carries water, fuel and ammunition to the rebel fighters. He doesn’t want the U.S. to kill all the Taliban’s forces. Save one for him. This little boy. Has more courage in his little finger than half this country. He’s ready to fight. Avenge his father. Then he can go home and see his mom.

I was gutted.

They’re cringing, you know. Our leaders. Oh, they’re not Kennedy, not Lincoln, not even Nixon. Not bad. Not ours. Full of sweat and venom. This generation makes ‘em sweat. Cause we don’t care. “F—- it,” that’s us. Our credo. Emblazoned on our hearts. So many generations. Past, present and future. The “founding fathers,” the “greatest generation,” the “baby boomers,” the “silent majority,” “Generation X,” and … us. The “f—- it” generation. The nation grasps its sides.

Presidents, senators, diplomats, clerics, priests, henchmen, fanatics, Arabs, Muslims, Christians, Jews, Catholics, Protestants, Batman, the Joker. They know. They know we gotta carry the guns, pull the triggers, kill, cry, leave, fly, live, die. For who? “F—- it.” But it ain’t ever gonna end. Nah.

That day. That damn day. Like a dream now. Nightmare. We’re different now. Aren’t we?

Someday, somewhere, a dust-covered reference book in some empty section of a library will have us in it. Our deeds, accomplishments, failures. Stuffy, bespectacled historians will compare us to other generations. How we acted, looked, talked, lived, loved. On that day. Every day. Until infinity. Cringe. What will it say? It’ll be short. Sweet. Maybe. Hopefully. You know.

But for today. A little over a month after the wreckage. We wonder. Are there? More of them?

Thousands. Ready to die. They hate us. Fear us. The way we dress, talk, walk, look, think, say, are, live, breathe. Not for what we believe in, though. No, never that. Cause there ain’t nothing there. A glaring void. A big bong. Rolled up dollar. Empty beer bottle. Used condom. Unfinished story. Finished life. Lonely sods. “F—- it.”

It’s already lost, isn’t it? This… war. It ain’t ever gonna end. Is it? This… thing.

“F—- it.”