My guess if this happened in the United States the shoe thrower would have been shot. How did the shoe thrower come out of this episode alive?

The opportunity came, and I took it.

I took it out of loyalty to every drop of innocent blood that has been shed through the occupation or because of it, every scream of a bereaved mother, every moan of an orphan, the sorrow of a rape victim, the teardrop of an orphan.

I posted my poem in May. It is called "Terror," and defines W. Bush.

Terror

Too many white crosses reach toward the sky;
christian and muslim dead together
in the fertile crescent, the cradle of civilization.
The son looks, smiles, laughs.
He does not fear the death of others.
He cannot explain why
military and civilians, friendly or hostile, must die.
The anguished cries from war-broken bodies
do not penetrate his rigid mind and frozen heart.
He does not hear the death of others.
Aides read numbers; propagandists keep the pictures
of flag-draped coffins hidden from public view.
His minions draw the battle plans.
He flexes his muscles for the feral pleasure of the flex. *
He smirks and laughs and jokes before being told.
the numbers of the dead.
He does not care to see the pictures of the lifeless shells.
He flexes his muscles
and more white crosses rise to meet the sky.

*line borrowed from David Hare. British dramatist

At Home, March 2003

COL. W. Patrick Lane: You know, I really appreciate the care with which people are trying to avoid unnecessary deaths in the air targeting of all this stuff, but I’ve been in Bahgdad a lot. And when you look at where these targets were, right down near the central core of the city alongthe Tgris Rver, this is the densest part of the city.

The sun shining through the windows
An Auden poem book lying on the shelf
The clock pendulum
Ticking, ticking,
My husband filling the bird feeder,
The furnace kicking on.

Too quiet here,
But the touch of a button
And a rectangle lights
A window on Baghdad—
Silhouettes against a fiery sky.
The President is speaking
An announcer is saying
“Shock”
“Awe.”

Echoes in my skull—
We’ve bought these bombs;
We’ve bought these bombs.

What I'd like to say to his face:


I'd tell you to go fuck yourself
But that is much too kind
Because if you could perform that feat
You'd take pleasure in your behind

I'd like to say eat shit and die
But you deserve much more
You should suffer all the grief and pain
Of your misbegotten war

Though I can never make you feel
Or think, or understand
I'll take solace when you hear your name
Cursed throughout the land

From inside a lonely prison cell
Dark and bare and cold
Where every day you pay for your crimes
Until you're sick, heartbroken, and old

Then when you finally leave the earth
You fucked over oh so well
If there is a God and afterlife
You're going straight to hell.

Tell you how you really feel.

And meaningful. Makes me want to cry.

I wrote this one way back when . . .

Back and forth, the ascended,
Leaders hurl their followers,
Into the bloody abyss upended,
Neither of them can be bothered,

Save the ones who do the dying,
There's nothing left for the tyrants,
But to gather up more kindling,
To appease the smoldering silence,

Mourning melts grief into anger,
Brooding saviors rise to avenge,
Oblivious, now of the danger,
Their prideful posture does pretend,

Power maims to gain the ground,
Casts bold shadows across fear-ed's face,
Yet, reaps the bare Earth where death stands,
Disturbs dust which was laid to waste,

Shrouds the martyr's bloody veil,
Soils the tyrant's immaculate cloak,
Yet, Mesopotamia will prevail,
To spite the war its descendants spoke.

-- Ron Fullwood (6-10-2006)

I don't support this guy's action, regardless of what a scum GWB was.