When I have finished irrigating the country’s soil with
my fertile blood. Seeding new warriors.
I will turn into fodder for famished screens. Millions of my faces
will bloom upon the idiot box
increase, multiply and feed countless starving eyes.
My blinded gaze will face compassion boredom
horror terror sympathy and disgust
my 15 seconds of fame glide across the microscope’s glass
and evaporate before the arc lights’ glare
as gyrating limbs and thumping breasts
overtake my fleeting image and
leave it far behind.
What race is this I lost before it began?
or did I win it standing still? Watching
my opponent’s heels kick nakedly at the oncoming dusk.
Synthetic dusk born from the smoke of guns
as irrational as my night which lingers on and on
while indolent dawn snuggles beneath the covers
waiting for someone else to switch on the light.
But. Where is glory better sought
on green grass or in slime?
facing the gritty winds of summer
or winter’s shroud of fog?
which does blood stain brighter
desert sand or mountain snow?
And. Who lights an eternal lamp for me
as I float, an anonymous cloud
carrying the rain child of glory in my womb
a child which refuses to be born
till the storm settles.
If it ever will.