is this my war? that
person shovelling snow
down in the yard dressed for
going to the north pole. no
this is not my war. not even
a battle. filibuster all you
like. this issue will be
settled & made public. going
down to the water's edge
they see another town near
by. & maybe a fishing
boat. & a bridge landing on
an artificial island where it
becomes a tunnel. that was
a battle for many years. be
fore the scoreboards got
first mechanized & then digital
some janitor had to hang
the numbers on them. how
exciting might that task have
been he wonders. nowhere is
a towel to be found. only
towers with spiral stairways
& ceilings stained with
wine & wild damp cells. bells
call you to arms & me to
torsos turning. learning lower
registers. barbarisms clashing
flashing their scars. cars
leaning over whispering in
their drivers' ears. hear ye. here
yeast stays at least three
days befor the rain comes
sweeping it off by then not
so dry land. don't fret. there
are very few true words hiding
here. severe trees look up to
the airplanes making tracks
in the sky. those ghost riders
are elsewhere. maybe jumping
ship. skip the next skipper. &
those tiles are beautifully over
stated. statements coincide
with harvest. moon over
some marina. are those really
flowers? they do look a lot like
fish

this is the beginning of a longish poem in progress titled, not surprisingly, this is my war. most of it was written in the wee hours of last night. am thinking it might become "chapbook-length" when it's done