2/28/2023 0 Comments Chains of fury pomes![]() I miss pummel and pike and I am not proud of this. I miss blackjack and cudgel and quarterstaff and flintlock. I miss trebuchet shoulders and knuckles flaked to arrowheads, miss my hands massive and molded from molten to the bolts of ballistas. I lock eyes with the capitol's bright and empty rooms and admit that, sometimes, deep in my affluent, American cells, I miss my body carved to projectile. ![]() Hold back the strongest urge to knock out a few of the capitol's most critical walls, replace its fiber optic cables with lightning bugs, replace the investment bankers all with bunker busters. Just stare out the window at our stunned little writhe. I don't know how to say how I feel politely, or poetically, or without the jugular and collapse of the immediate heart, so tonight, I won't say anything at all. Love is crowding the street and needs only airĪnd it lives, over there, in the distance burning. Reflecting back at me the one true blasphemy: ![]() It lands on the ground in a pool of light In the side as I write this? Isn’t it the thorn Twin? Isn’t that what is pummeling history The scent you could only describe as smoke.īut aren’t we talking about mercy and its dark If I told you that all of this happens at night,Īll of this happens in the future, always The deep woodsĪre ahead and if the panthers could just reach it. Only a frenzy of air to fan it to inferno. To understand, all that we could have doneīut did not. Stoked by the fury of all that we have come Starting fires fueled by a distinct hunger. Its nails, its bitter breath against his boyhood ![]() On the street, his heart fiercely tethered That pursue us and what if the threat persists What is a safe distance from the thoughts He tries to scratch them awayīut it’s the ghost of his fear that I fear. He envisions words on the wall and cannot In front of the television, a safe vista. There were reports that panthers were charging His expression gleeful as I rub a damp cloth Somehow or other still carried away by America Sometimes I still put my hand tenderly on my heart Purple mountains and no homeless in America Imagining amber waves of grain blowing in the wind One triumphant bully one still hopeful America We comprehend it now this land is two lands Only later discovering the Nation is divisibleīy money by power by color by gender by sex America Live on opposite sides of the street in America Only later learning the Banner and the Beautiful What to wear, how to smoke, how to despise our parents School days school days dear old Golden Rule Days I said One Nation Invisible until corrected We put our hands over our first grade hearts The Beautiful along with the Star-Spangled BannerĪnd say the Pledge of Allegiance to America In first grade when we learned to sing America The border is a skunk with a white line down its back.ĭo you remember our earnestness our sincerity The border is the line in new bifocals: below, small things get bigger above, nothing changes. The border is a big, neat, clean, clear black line on a map that does not exist. The border is mighty, but even the parting of the seas created a path, not a barrier. The border is a place of plans constantly broken and repaired and broken. The border is a moat but without a castle on either side. The border is a locked door that has been promoted. The border is “NoNo” The Clown, who can’t make anyone laugh. The border is the location of the factory where lightning and thunder are made. The border is an equation in search of an equals sign. The border is two men in love with the same woman. The border is the place between the two pages in a book where the spine is bent too far. The border smells like cars at noon and wood smoke in the evening. The border is a handshake that becomes a squeezing contest. The border, the word border, sounds like order, but in this place they do not rhyme. The border used to be an actual place, but now, it is the act of a thousand imaginations. The border is a real crack in an imaginary dam. The border is a jump rope still there even after the game is finished. The border has always been a welcome stopping place but is now a stop sign, always red. The border is a brand, the “Double-X” of barbed wire scarred into the skin of so many. The border says stop to the wind, but the wind speaks another language, and keeps going. The border is the blood clot in the river’s vein. The border is a rusted hinge that does not bend. The border is a belt that is too tight, holding things up but making it hard to breathe. The border is where flint first met steel, starting a century of fires. The border is a beautiful piece of paper folded carelessly in half. The border is a line that birds cannot see.
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