the weary mind
late spring or middle of summer,
getting high in the underbrush down by the river,
other side of the highway from the plastics factory,
smell of death everywhere and there is no
chance of winning the war
there is no hope of escaping the past
your sons, your father’s ghost and
when was the last time you were
loved without limit?
what was the last promise you made
that had no loopholes?
there need to be more choices
something between VULTURE and CARRION
or something beyond
aniline blue or cerulean and
with mediterranean sunlight
with a luminous heart
and who are you to believe in
the endings of poems?
what name do you give the joy that
you take in your lover’s pain?
to deny the birth of christ is
to deny his death
to pull the trigger when you’re told
isn’t the same thing as bravery
there is no end to the number of
children waiting to
butchered in the quest for power
there is no end to the lies passed off as
absolute truths that fall from
the cancerous mouths of fictitious gods
with the past always in the
your memories of sharp edges and broken glass,
dangers that refuse to be dulled by time
a family filled with victim who
refuse to fade gracefully
refuse to live long enough
to die of old age but
who am i to scream about justice?
who are you to preach the need
of AN EYE FOR AN EYE?
gouge out your own
just to get the ball rolling
stare into the crippled sun
and tell me what you see