All that rest are spaces (space)
space of drums
("Come" they told him)
Nitre, cannon, horns, pipes
Sinew (pink, foam-flecked)
flailing, fallen, gathered, apart
upon itself, weltered
Nitre: saltpeter or potassium nitrate, a component of gunpowder.
Welter: lie soaked in blood.
Who do we actually think has laid down their lives for the freedoms of today? A wellspring of greater beings who have sacrificed everything for us in some past, performing a duty we attempt to honor for a moment, for a day or on a postage stamp? No no no. They are us, one life to the next as we live and die and live—live yet again. We might take a dimmer view of those running roughshod over our hard-won victories if we realized the personal price we’ve paid and how many times. This poem is a death remembered in parts—one day of many from that perspective. Remembered, because that awareness has gone on to live again. I remember past lives (and this is the death of one of them), and so these memories are sometimes disconnected and hard to look at. I don’t much care whether this preamble seems strange or utterly fantastic.
Make room. This is the Death of a Patriot.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)