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1916

blurry black and white dreams
of a long-gone time
when the trenches swallowed entire towns
who had no idea why
they held the line

but they held that fucking line

there simply is not a substitute
for the steel
in British spines
in the eyes of every haunted husk
in the French and German lines
in the hearts of Serbians
in constant flight
and the Austrians they fled

and on and on the shelling went
well into the night

and when the butchers signed their treaty
it didn’t stop the fight

It’s been 100 years since then, so I wrote a poem about the Great War

poem #397

suppose i said
that i am unsure
how all of this will end
whether it’s happily or
a total collapse
i have no idea.

some days i think i do.
then i snap the fuck out of it.

really, i don’t think i know anything at all
except that i feel the most lonely
when i’m right next to her
but that’s also when i feel the most alive

so, here we are
i have no idea what lay ahead
aside from the fact that it will feature
me, her, and a bed
about a million feet of dirt
and a billion restless dead…

my love life is like a zombie flick inside my head

Happiness

I know now
What my first mistake was:
Happiness
Isn’t some blissful state you reach
Some ultimate nirvana
Some clearing in the woods

It is going to bed at night
And not already dreading
Having to get back up again
It is a back ache that goes away on its own

It is the little victories

Because there are no big victories.