20.5.14



drone
              on


he nodded miserably                                                                                                           

                                           he droned on and on and on and on and on . . . about how 
we   and make no fucking mistake   Our Country  owns the horror drones have inflicted

                                                                  if a terrorist were to nuzzle a revolvers muzzle 
at the small of our back                                                                                                                      
fire the weapon                                                                                                                 
shatter our spine                                                                                                                  
render us paraplegic                                                                                                                
affirming their act was revenge for callous US drone attacks against Middle East targets  
resulting in the unjust slaughter of innocents                                                                  
                                                                   euphemistically US says  Collateral Damage                                                                                                 
we couldnt possibly resent their attack                                                                                     
we   responsible for the action our Government takes on our behalf   are guilt

we may pity ourselves  a random plum plucked from a pie 
but no  we didnt stop it


could you accept that


could you dismiss your legs  your mobility  your sex life   knowing if money isnt in the 
offering  
               who fucks a paraplegic

                                                                               he didnt paint pretty pictures                                                                                                     
he wasnt here to paint                                                                                                          
but to relate honesttogawd images and evoke a black and white reality


he loved fucking
he loved moving about naturally  like on the day he was born

                                                                                but if a hyperspinning bullet took his 
legs                                                                                                                                        
forgave his life                                                                                                                         
he couldnt  wouldnt  find fault in their rationale

despite maniacally adamant drones were vile   were horribly wrong   were utterly 
UnAmerican
                                                                                                                         
wondering what remained American
                                                                                 hed deserve shitting in his diapers


                                              
                                                                                  that may be a terrible admission
but to say otherwise   is a more terrible lie




2045,  Twosday,  7  1. 14

19.5.14


                                                                                                    ashes call to him

grey
everything is grey
he emerges from it as if it were a fog
tangible  swirling off him like smoke or vapor  or an emitted radiant heat

there is something small in his fist
he cannot open his hand
he cannot feel what it is

following him out of the greyness 
an intent woman walks 
as if she followed him in
he turns to her approach
                                            she is outlined  haloed  etched  as if by hoarfrost
his hand trembles and begins to relax
he extends it to her

she takes his hand in both of hers 
he feels an electricity   vibrations
his hand begins to open  as if geared or mechanical 
and on his palm
a brilliant white slip

she takes it from him
                                       and with a slender fingernail she catches its edge
it accordions open
unfolding larger and larger

realised 
she reads it and weeps
and smiles
she embraces him
she does not say what she has read

holding him in her arms
the grey cloister rents and splits
it sheers into loose sheaves
shot through and veined blue

embracing  they are slightly above the ground 

and all around them seethes colored translucent space




1405,  Wednesday,  15  6. 11