Good afternoon, armed meta-
physician; good afternoon,
thug drug dealer; good afternoon
to all the ships in port,  
good afternoon to all
the tanks in formation, all
the gunners straining to shoot,
all the cavalry wondering
why their horses are flying
so hapazardly overhead;
good afterpart afterglow
of the afternoon
of another day of war…
bang bang BANG,
yes I meant afterglow; how
can the similarities
have escaped you? 

How did you miss the foreplay
all morning, the undercard, the small
scatterling bullets
taking a life here and an arm there;
surely you were here for the main event,
the top of the bill, the monstrous moist licking
we took, the thrust
of what we gave right back?

How did you miss it? How do you not see
that it’s the only reason 
the armed metaphysician and
the thug drug dealer ever find
common ground — when the horses
fly through the sexy air and land with
grand breaks and splayed eyes,
strange bedfellows practically
spoon, war seems less violent
and more romantic, more red,
more chemical reaction, more
of what men have decided
makes them come.