swordfight

the hurtful thing about the way that I would end this
wouldn’t be in the blow
and the gushing of blood sure to follow
it wouldn’t be in what lays clinging to my sword
severed, alright, but timidly shy about the truth
that it has parted from its source

the hurt would be in this heart.
in this wound that I would be inflicting deeper
than any external pain has ever been granted the decency to explore

I wasn’t ever sure as sure could be / you know,
the way that geese know their mate isn’t a duck
or the way a snowflake knows it’s not welcome
not by earth or humans alike
in the midst of June
I wasn’t sure as sure stated
that bikers must be tough
and barbies dressed in pink

I wasn’t sure that I would always fit into the mould
and wear this kilt and this dirk around my waist and assume
the role of tartan bearer for a proud people.

I don’t feel a need for that wound.
I like the way my blood currents flow
the leftward tilt it all has. when World Bank hacks
spew hatred of the developing world
I like that my temperature increase.
when the rich get filthier in their wealth generated
by the public. when notorious evils are clobbered
by the might of uprising people.

I just hate the gashes I end up with on my arms
the nicks across my chest
the punctured marks on my heart
when I am backstabbed by those
supposedly fighting on the same side.