1st draft

I’m liking this process of writing these off the top of my head, and putting them out there for immediate comment. It’s sorta like hanging fresh sheets of paint before knowing what the picture is of.

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Night
sometimes leaves
wounds that never
heal. Broad daylight can carve you

too. Dawn and dusk hold their own
dangers. Face it:
nothing is safe, nothing is
comforting. You might as well

give up on growing old, as it
happens so rarely. In fact,
pretend you’re already dead.
Pretend you’re not American.

Pretend the clothes on your back
smell of napalm. Think
of imperialism as a flavor of the
month at the local ice cream parlor,

and scoop yourself out a double dip.
Buy jewelry from Mexico, henna from
Egypt, hash from what they tell you is Morocco
but is more likely Contra Costa, California.

Give up your television, praise your musicians,
wave a burning flag at the cameras, run home
to your parents when the flames get too close.
This is your world. All that danger you claim

to despise? It’s your breath. All that money
you claim to fear? It’s your blood. All that bullshit
you claim to reject? It’s your bullshit.
And owning your bullshit is part of growing up.

Night wounds you, yes; day carves you, yes;
everything is always fatal in the last reel. But
you were born here, you were made here, and as
bad as it is, bite down on it like tinfoil and love it:

it’s the only way
you’ll ever find
the heart
to make it disappear.