(H)

"Don't be afraid of my friends, they're poets"

tilting her head she smiledÊ

then fell down the stairs

I opened the door and we walked out together

into the cold shadows which New Yorkers

imitate so well


They were juggling colorful lead ballons

on the subway that Sunday morning

because Thomas Pynchon was wearing

high heels and a vermillion wig


Crossing the Road old men

kept ressurecting from the asphalt;

as the wind blew onlookers eyeballs

in front of my boots


I stepped carefully across Heaven

then stood wathching the Battle


The sound and clatter of war can be indistinct

and is often ambiguous

I ordered my leftenant

to raise a pink banner in the wind

as we began to kill in earnest


I sat upon the grassy mound rolling

dice for the souls of my enemies

Satan slipped into the abyss

the train stopped

letting people out

I stood upon the mound of Death

and ordered my leftenant

to remove a silver horse from my cup

Êthen entered the frayÊ

that sunny morning


He put the horse back in the wooden box

our grandmothers had left


Walking down the slope I heard

no sound

Stepping upon the field I found

no enemies

the banner blew lazily in the soft,

warm breeze of the Sun rising

over the trees

I knelt on one knee

and held him bleeding in my arms, tightly

his blood stanched between the fingers

of my hard grasp

There was a quiet smile upon his lips

when he held his eyes gently closed

then breathed gratitude

as a moist crimson rose

 pale upon his milk dew cheeks.