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Poetry by Peter Desy
Combat is all right if the other men
are dark or lighter. If the women
are hairy, this will ease our
burden, such animals are they.
If they live in huts with no power
lines, this is another plus.
* * *
Always bomb the bridges, the walkways
of persistent memories, linking lives
and times, under which the moon floats,
starting human dreams. The other
learning placesin and under trees,
in sleeping places, at the edges of gardens
the private sanctuaries of desire or
fascination; strafe these,
with our blonde eyes on the spidery
cross hairs of sights with dead centers,
these places where hamburgers and pizza
have yet to be invented.
Their brown-eyed, dark-skinned gods
won't interfere. Our god of light
stands with a flashing sword
we've forged from gold and given
others like it to the marines, each
with one foot on a beach somewhere.
We might be afraid they could dream
us away, the way we left off dreaming,
because we were afraid
of the worst dream of all,
that we've stopped living,
that there's something we've forgotten.