give them their voices

we ponder, no, fret at ourselves
for days
in this wintertime haze
before some part of us decides
that we're going to be telling the truth.
but that's a normal thing tho.

that shivering, quaking, unfortunately familiar fear
grips 
digs 
into our backs
without our consent
as we walk outside and the sun
falls again.
as we try to tell our story, but ahaha, where do i even begin?
and yet for how cold it is there is no snow.
but that's normal weather tho.
whether weathering storms come to pass or show.

the words trembling,
no, dancing mischievously,
like ... like immature generals of war
in their mocking manner
defiant as always;
yet emancipating themselves
from our prison of fat, muscle,
blood, bone.
but that's normal tho.

it's unjust how they fall on the snow,
guilttripping and laughing,
a masochistic sardonic selfcentered narrator
fisticuffs with an identity
... yes, laughing
as they sell me away to the war
that i    never asked    to join.


my action was not voluntary,
no one remembers if there was even action to begin with,
but. "Somebody started this and now someone has to--"
finish it ... ?
or so the narration goes ... ?
i never understood.


the words now fall on the snow,
drip... dripping
cold, hard, facts and staining
our favorite clothes.


and when you wake up in your
dream seeing the sightscene, 1916
bullets flying at a terrifying pace
to your headline, 16
where did it begin

before, you imagined a universal declaration of pascifism
or am i being too sappy
watched the air above, and not want for trying
not want, not once did you want to be left in a limited being
you wanted to be ridden of a sense of identity
watched the rest of them
stars in the sky blinking at lightspeed, fighting, trying
space is a void of antimatter and nuclear writhing, bustling,
energy enigmatic existentialistic entities eager egotistical ever edged on
insanity

or so you were told
relentlessly

so you gave up
that dream


16


you were only that age
when you watched the horizon bleed
turned tempered men into mortal vessels,
just chips
in mainframes
simulating history
set in stone for all to see
to learn to never do, to never return to again,
but we all know where states are going

chips
in mainframes
cogs in a set of sets counting past infinity
numbers in a machine calculating an algorithm for PTSD
stars in the sky blinking at lightspeed fighting trying
space is a void of antimatter and nuclear writhing
are we monsters or are we animals
does it feel like nicotine, trying? does it feel like insanity, trying?
does it feel, does it feel, does it feel
like a broken record, grooving, shifting,
needle in a trench guided by just soundwaves, deafening--

you dont remember?
oh. i see. i'm rambling. imagining.

... but i couldn't be.  i felt that.  it was real.


and yeah, some of them fall.
some of them
             freeze
at the spot too,

and then they are bombed and buried
bloodied and battered, bruised, bones
broken
buried with their comrades like we are
only for the "survivors" to say
something, no, nothing, no, no,
       something of the truth of what happened there


the urge to scream! ,
the impulse, the irrational desire to be heard ... forces through awkwardly
thru our fat lips and dark circled eyes
shaking hands
frayed hair
our disheveled lives at home and work
once the war is over
only to stutter
we st stu st stut stut stutt
er st stutt ss sstutter st stutt er
only to          stutter
only to stutter
after saying
"We are ... "


so we turn back to the trenches of dried mud and blood.
of secrets and snow both sides know and refuse to show or deliver through doves,
dued debts owned but unpaid for both brash fighters.
of others too, buried, old and anew
and of course it's true we say
"We are ... " before faltering.


and we are
shot! by critics, empathizers, bootlickers,
and we are
buried! with our achievements.
the hands that caressed our lovers face, the legs that made us run
when our lungs could no longer
the tools we used
the places we went
stored in mind, body, spirit,


tombs.


"the war to be heard" tears us all apart
as easy as the naysayers spies reactionaries donobetterknownoworse physically
dismantle and destroy
documents and treaties
designed to stop this war
and those opponents proclaimed vividly a memory of yesteryear
where the same thing happened before again and again, they thought they'd seen
a delightful chorale a saccharine sweet singsong sung long in keys of d
so they dismantled and destroyed documents and treaties
despite our due diligence done and distributed, deadly blows to our enemies
gestures of goodwill after endless suffering
are we all gods or are we just limited to our own bloodstreams
and they destroyed them all, the treaties, ones designed to--
designed to
designed to give us our voices back
our lives back
designed to, designated to, dire straights we were were directed to,
subjected to, pushed to,
to be
or
not to be?

dying for the state, did they mean it out there ...
or somewhere inbetween? somewhere long after when they're now living broke and
on the streets



and the war rages forwards.

"Hey, 50 trillion bucks is 50 trillion bucks."
        

[raw]