You wouldnt understand my position if you walked in my shoes, took my scars, broke a frozen face with my smile, shit my shit, ate my cheerios, and watched the same yellow lights pass underneath 280. Essence and spirit forever enshrouded, perpetually disconnected, leave no room for potence, no empty chair, or burning candle for strangers, guests, friends, family. A shattered crystal, a broken window, your dissolution is appalling, distracting, even to the naked eye. So many times have I navigated a maze of signals, false positives, manipulating variables of no consequence, hoping against hope to strike dirt, sticks, air, death, life, vapor, feces, a tin soldier. Engaged in circumlocution, I wince at the midday sky. With another tired glance at a cadre of advisors I rattle off a cliched speech, an inscrutable proclamation to those of little consequence, as foreign to my audience as the pulpit from which I bombast intricacies, open silos, protect the noncommital, and hype victory against a phantom country. You would see this war to its completion. You would gaze lovingly at the covered dead, throwing a silk handkerchief to the guerillas and the federales with no second pause, all the while reconjuring the phantasm, spreading the virgin mary to the remote catholic, recounting abba fathers and the rumors of Jesus among frailty and stones. This future I cannot condone, a product I cannot endorse. With a sad wave, the white flag will fly, the troops will be withdrawn, the search will cease, incongruent pieces will no longer be piled into each other, phantasms paid no mind and dematerialized. I will die the death of a soldier surrendered, the citizen that coalesces a wiser commander.
That's the first and only poem I ever wrote...
