the love and romance. the years lit by artillery. the wars.
the men did these wild things. these great grand expressions of love and survival. they’d damage themselves, bleed while moving furniture. wood splinters better painted red wet warmth. they’d notch together plum-cut bricks into crenulations or walls or cathedrals. home built.
the women: of an ancient woven fiber and/or old energy, they’d battle serpents into dark and drunk loneliness. she conspired for a happy life.
death by the meadow. old woman remembering young woman and young man, now old man approaching. the world forgets, but we will always have eachother.
remember us youths in proto-revolution. we didn’t believe in what we did. we lived a lie. all america. dreaming and soap opera. daytime television blastulas.
the wars are fought early, and fierce. the wars are won and lost on highschool dancefloors. highschool blacktops. blackboards. breathy kissing. spectral codes of light.
and we bloom outward into livelihoods and incomes. timelines. trenches to crawl from shell-shocked and screaming ****** ******. or not. but yes -
the world is built on blisters and scar tissue. nothing is untouched. nothing is unwounded.