The Art of Rubber.

The bane of every warrior is his unrecognized pain;
In the sea of band-aids, needlessly he
rips them all off,
and sends hatemail to hoards of nurses.

His brightest star is a topless woman
fighting a yack back-
reinventing herself with every word
he or she utters.

Collateral damage is an accepted consequence
to friendly fire.
None of my people stand in my way.
Light me ablaze.

And Joan of Arc will wake up with me
in a graphic t-shirt that says she rejects feminism.
She’s so ironic.

If only he’d shut off his gun, and take to instead
a bullet proof vest;

getting shot at on his porch in everyday drive-bys,
he could finish his lemonade, virtually unscathed.

I love the smell of mourning in the morning.
It smells of cliches, and too many right answers
to pick the right bingo ball.

Strategy is smart, but weapons are smarter;
Sun Tzu would get owned.

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing.
All knows is why he’s there.
Don’t they all.



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