Unending barrages of kick-me sign
fall upon you in a world
made up of yes-man chuck norris
and fuck-no bruce lee,
combined in a bull to a matador,
a kick-me sign maker,
who is the pen of your ink,
and the tape to your paper.

Regardless of whether
bruce lee prevails in your destiny,
your power, duress
is but reason to his purpose-
your lifeforce is your sheet.
Vicarious in possessions,
now powerless since freed.

As bruce lee trots into a sunset,
tempered by his chuck inside him,
conflicts await in the alien horizon.
More makers and their sheets.
And what forms these may manifest.
Agape you stare where he vanishes
ardently into his great new nothing.

But this seems the world’s way.
As you sit inside bones of memory.
In catacombs of a colosseum.
The arena of your life and death,
wherein you coeval as a prop.
And silently wish to be remade.