Any Given Time
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I'm no genius because my demons are dull.
The geniuses paint beards on their bombs
and crack down on sidewalk merchants,
make shrapnel of shimmer and blood of oranges.
I'm no genius because my angels are dull, too.
In this life I have only managed to invent and play
an alternate form of Scrabble. I have thus far
escaped death's black and careening
Mustang, its errant and leaping buck, its surprise
stroke, surprise appendicitis, leukemia, surprise
surprise! only to reward the living
by forgetting their first names.
They will not study me. And since they will not
study me, I will not live past these fourteen days
I've been slated to live. And since I will not
live past these fourteen days, I will exist
in death only as a constituent of the dead, evidence
in anyone's argument about how the living should live.
I'll be the paint on the protest sign and the spit
in that protester's eye. And if I'm the paint and the spit,
the bomb and the bombed, then I'm zip times nothing,
which is zero, squared.