boundaries

you need the bell of another body to ring
your fat tongues of fire.

whatever wet red dream is still lodged in
your gazeless stare.

you need matches. you need propane,
gutting the house of your neighbor,

punching it blue, looting it white. what
others ways to release your nervous

tenderness, your tinnitus, your tetanus:
the women and the children first.

you need to demonstrate the little big,
the big little, and every window smashed.

your daddy marched. his daddy marched.
you need good songs, red choirs.

somewhere, someone is making a movie
about this – there will be poppies

and plaids, wheat-blond, and a balalaika.
every body suffering on your watch.

when the world ends, every child will
inhale solvents on a rooftop –

it will be grand, it will be brotherhood.

my gift to you is the word: no.