The unequivocal avant-garde way of living
The sunrise is breaching the war front
like infants swimming from wombs.
I sleep, lulled, by the misfire.
Your artistic smile
This war is urban, gorilla war fair,
my cab fare shoplifted
by the ministers daughter
with her pink hair chiffon,
on the run, but if anyone
really cared they could find
her by her trail of spit out chewing gum.
It has been said,
between the cracks
in the canal
(that truth has been erased from every language
and has since been replaced with denial)
it has been whispered that your body
is boycotting my body -
but what you don't
understand is that
a woman is soothed
by the absence of
(that my shame has been mislaid)
and though I spend each morning overseeing
the sunrise I always keep a special place
in my mind for all that was misconstrued;
divide, across the edges of war.
Ghost-like in its remembrance
for the touch of life.
War is not life; I cannot live on one
continent and forget another.
I will never exile you, like truth
to sleep in cold arms.
to define my
I cannot fight this war.
I can only watch as the sunrise stretches across it.
The light is lulled, by the misfire.
And the girl chewing her gum sits
beside me on the waterfront bench
waiting it out
or, some such nonsense. Her pink hair
and her green sneakers
inside the breeze; we are on the forefront,
a scratchy indented battle zone, while
everyone else is clamped onto someone
Gain is the new word for winning
and loss is being bred out of us
while we all, like cannibals, feed off
each other's mediocrity like threadbare
shells starving for attention.
I am worthy
to be who
I was born to be.