in postmodern times there are no movements
there is no movement; no movement
stands still in the snow & rain; his brother
the football hero for now;
the poet walks alone
beside train tracks running bio-hazard
over Christina's earth; his online Palestinian gf
his sister dates the quarterback to rare prom
queen accolades & straight-A's never a zero;
he gets in trouble for smoking & drawing
penises in Magic marker on every wall &
leaving cryptic insanity in inspired notes;
the shooter could never be a football hero;
he was in my poetry group;
he was weird but I gave him a copy of TS Eliot