There is no moment in time without expression.
It begins with a PRACTICAL need
(we NEED a tombstone.
we NEED a Eulogy.
we NEED a bust for our kings, and our gods, and our dog
that got hit by a car last week.)
We NEED an Identity.
PRACTICALITY is the mother of heritage.
Heritage is the mother of tradition, and oh-are-we just so proud of tradition.
Heritage is so proud that she has a “my kid is on honor roll” sticker plastered in the window of her mini-van.
War is the abusive stepfather.
Drunken eyes bleeding red wine crushed from stolen grapes,
and he’s building a wall around a vineyard that was never his.
Do we still call it a gate if it never opens?
I had this dream last night that I died.
And when I work up I realized I have never told anyone how to take care of my body.
Because I had never really thought about it.
To whom it may concern:
I want to be stuffed like a deceased mountain lion found on the side of the highway and put in a museum or in a glass box at the San Diego airport in that weird section in terminal 2 that for some reason features ‘indigenous’ creatures
Or wherever you can get me in. All I need is a plaque with my name on it.