a moment of weakness

tiring,

this weight, this inheritance:

the blood soaking of conquerors and a million or more murders

and my hands are

oily slick with history and

the white-washed bleaching of

pledge allegiance to the corner

of the industrial classroom.

Straining with that burning want of

chaos and

a cigarette choked scream

of desiring to be the bomb—

she’s my hope for the future…

hope that something will come after us.

as she stands guard

in the beauty of nuclear glow

and irony

like falling stars and lightning bugs in july,

to keep june bugs buzzing and bumbling

they can’t seem to grasp the concept of

solid limits and boundaries…

though if I had the chance I’d probably

reveal myself to be that which I

am still a number in the system…

and I’ve spoken too much already.

like a self-serving raised and shaky fist,

a trite attempt to be something abstract.