In April, we walked
Across the battleground, and kicked
The black and blue earth
Beneath our feet, careful
To avoid the white
Crosses carved from bone.

“Be cautious of landmines
and the tortured pantomimes
of high school drop outs…”

“but where are the trenches
of our enemies?”

“Beneath your feet, darling.”

This wasteland is without end, or opposition.
Homi Bhabha and Edward Said
Are writing papers about the redefinition
Of youth culture in this minimal space,
The fallout from two eras colliding,
This motherfucking beyond,
This one sided war, while we
Stand, unassembled puzzles
Of flesh. They say

Once there was a man.
He kneeled down, as if to pray
And kissed the ground
With tongue and teeth.
Nosferatu! The people whispered,
As he drank the blood from the earth,
Spilled from our veins.
Nosferatu, the vampire.

And in a buzz and a flash
We blinded, then dust.

“But the land can’t
heal on a diet
of blood and dust.”

Just before you
Disappear.

I wish I could cry.

The nosferatue was said to have stood
Up after his meal of earth and blood,
Soil stained chin and roots
Caught in his teeth and said:
“I wish I could die.”
Datta.
Dayadhvam.
Damyata.

I wish I could cry, sometimes.
I don’t want to be blinded.