(the case for war)

because it feels
like I’ve learned how
to sing using
only blood

because I step
on my own tongue
chasing it

because between
the legs
is how I feel
rage

because I can buy
one boxcar full of lawyers
two boxcars full of editorials
and a whole train more of ginned-up rage
to ease the way
once it begins

because it can last a long time
it might lose its flavor
like old gum
but still stays firm
when it slides
up and down on the tooth

because having something sliding
up and down on my tooth
makes more joy than anything else
I can think of doing

because somehow
glamor and honor still congeal
around last charges
last stands
lost causes

and because they don’t give out
the good jewelry
for dying while asleep

night
brings
dragon-full
sky.

ruddy smoke
bleeds across
the river
from our
blasted homes,
drifts up
and leads us
into our
mountains.

tonight when
their roaring wings
block
the stars
we will trust
our hills
to save us.

when we’re ready,
we’ll return.

if there are still dragons,
we may burn again.
we may slay them.

we will endure.

Defense
against.  Offense
against.  
Siege in progress.

These colors don’t run,
these walls hold fast,  these weapons 
never have an opportunity
to rust.

Smell the iron on the wind:
whose blood is that?

Close edge of the surrounding wood —
two does, one fawn,
peering out of darkness under
the pines.

Rain on the wind, 
wall of nimbus behind the trees.
Two soldiers crying now
as they have not till now.  

Why cry? Comrades,
the storm is made to refresh us — 
be washed, be ready, 

for the deer
have just fled back
under the pines.

The common doomflower
sprouts in C4
and blooms when fed
blood.

Red breath, 
silken bone,
charred ruby eye

are just three
of its many names.

She knows them all.
She carries
a charred ruby eyed seed
strapped to her torso
as she enters the marketplace.

Before her, a table
that holds bowls
of lemon-touched water,
plates of herbs, a tray
of fresh fish
soaked in lime juice.
A sign on the table reads:

Whoever tastes the water
will want to taste the herbs.
Whoever tastes the herbs
will want to taste the fish.
Whoever tastes the fish
will turn from the market
and go home satisfied.

She stops here
and tastes it all —
water, herbs, fish, lime.

Silken bone gardener,
seeking a place
for the red breath to flower,
a moment of clarity:
the sun, the people
crowding in for the food,
everyone happy
and ready to turn from the market
and leave satisfied,
even her;
she reaches
for the button — this is

a time to sow,
a time to reap.

Vehicle of dissent:
car on fire
in a street market. 

A call to arms:
the keening of those collecting
scattered, shattered limbs.

Uprising:
smoke — greasy,
dieseled, flesh-flavored.
The clouds hanging low.

Justice:
choosing what makes any sense here —
eye, tooth, noose, bullet, mercy.

Closure.
How we laugh in the cafes and alleys
when that word is uttered.