Friday, October 26, 2007


MY WARFARE

There is war out my window tonight.
The lights of the city flare and pixillate;
sirens, a lone shout quickly doused.
I am beyond vaccination.

In our small, cramped armistice, I stretch
arms gone numb, loops of blood
useless, busy forgetting.

You can rest your gun in the funeral
stone of my mouth, you can call my slashed
red ribbons the first sign of Spring coming.
I don't care. You can say anything. My warfare
is the all-night news station, eggs hot off the plate,
the heating element a lover engraves
into his palm to prove he's beyond pain.
I say these things because such spaces
yawn between them.

I hum along with owls extinct on telegraph wires,
waiting for the last signal to be complete.
I am the Undertaker's Son
after a horrible accident: Grey-tied, rubber-gloved.
Give me your coupons, they are your face
trapped beneath glass.
Give me champagne and Dramamine
and I'll dish out last moments like flash cards
just before the crash: Hands Held, Fire, Regret.

Monsters