fuselage

This man with his hands on fire,
with his chest cut open,
peeled back,
heart illuminated like the eyes of Christ,
the musicians warming up,
the planes coming in too low

Woman spreads her legs here,
gives birth to a war

Feeds it the bones of her children

Steps out of the car and she’s
already seven months pregnant again,
and the bomb is strapped across
her swollen stomach

The killing is in the name of God

He only hates you
because you’re human

o brothers, o sisters

We are not nothing, we are
something more.

We were lovers at least,
until the lies we believed in were
exposed.

We were static.

Were faint sounds down
empty hallways
and then the wrong door was opened.

The hanging man was found.

Eyes wide open and smiling
like he thought we’d
never leave.

Pollock, w/ anchor

and Lee in the corner,
and neither of them smiling,
and none of it real.

None of it more or less worth noting
than the dropping of an atomic bomb or the
names of all the corpses floating in the Congo because,
bottom line,
you're here aren't you?

Alive and well and possibly loved and,
if there was more,
wouldn't you have found out by now?

Wouldn't the hand of God have come down
from the sky and taken you by the throat?

It only seems fair.