zapruder zeppelin

How the voices of friends change

On the radios.  I am everything not

War so I wish to join the ranks of

Murder. The radiation of death I

Want personally, the gun powder

Burnt nostrils and untethered pulse,

The black eye and purple muscle.

Punched silver and eggplant may

Be my only chance, i.e. parri

Passu for the word lover’s at bat.

Weak from concussive plumes of

Smoke, Ginsberg’s book duc-taped to

my chest, I run ‘til I feel nothing

in my wake and step. All shrapnel,

Every bullet, I call by name, every

Criticism stopped between pages

600 and 9-fifty, one index from any

artery.  When I’m ready, may I grow

not into washable chalk lilacs or such,

but nature  alive for the wind. Like

no one before me, I make my own

in this war and suffering of

depreciated souls, bones, and stripped

locomotives. I don’t want war to be

a thing of the past but an art

that I hate against humanity. I become a

prince of peace, a poet,

my wager as a priest.