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

weeps, sheepishly

-

...avant-garde?

-

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.

-

I sleep.

-

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

pain

-

(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;

-

our

marriage

of

minds

-

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.

-

I cannot

resign my

birth,

simply

to define my

worth.

-

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

-

b

l

u

r

-

inside the breeze; we are on the forefront,

a scratchy indented battle zone, while

everyone else is clamped onto someone

else's ideal.

-

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.