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When they murder the tyrant

It makes no difference at the pinnacle
whether this or that kingdom
wins or loses,
some city prospers or withers,
or if a person recuperates or dies
It’s all an illusion at the ice-capped heights,
from the frozen stark tops

When they murder the tyrant
they shoot me too and leave for dead
my wounded, bloody, body
The bastard’s proud, ragged,
red military cap lies next to me
in the grass and there’s a moon,
fluorescent white, in a clear night sky

The melody for once and only once
lifts from my bow as I play
the violin alongside my teacher
Were they his notes or mine?
How that little phrase,
that melody did rise and flow
naked as a bluebird and free

I’m repulsed by those who mirror
my awkward, bad habits
They continue to make
the mistakes I’ve
long since learned to hide and correct
I shock the limits of my mind
and fight to find my resilience

She burnishes an unsatisfactory reality
and tells me lies about her life
Even so, the moments I spend with
her are precious, exciting and fine
Here’s the potency of praise
when lavished upon the ambitious
These fictions of love and delight

Here are the stories we think we know
Look at all those books
piled high in boxes we can’t even lift
This one says that we’re machines
but that’s not it—
It’s that machines imitate us
even as they surpass us in speed

All they left is a few fossilized bones
and a handful of stone tools
Better to be in the elites or a king
Your stories will then fill the air
They’ll stir up the mythmakers,
the shapers, the changers with their
bright fictions that soar into time

 

 

 

-June 10, 2016-