Wax is dripping from the sky.
The moon carries orphans on its uncensored spine.
It will save Egypt, the dirt and the mothers
and the orphans and the broken down trucks.
It will save them like winding tree branches,
the redwoods that begged for the sky,
hoarding water,
tearing muscle and ribbons
and shattering antique china
embroidered with hammers that brought down the Berlin wall.
I will crave that splitting head ache
and freeze the spinning sky.
Spitting into the kings wine.
Our bleary eyed, sloppy drunk leader,
who could never save the country like I could.
The man with the switch knife,
with a lions face,
with a lobotomy that was supposed to fix the broken mirror,
rupturing with cracks of a revolution.
He will sleep on a park bench,
incased in unformidable laughter.
He will bleed in the shadows of upper-class bathrooms.
Rolling his own cigarets,
turning like spinning wheels,
weaving unconventional thread.
For every window I gave a name.
An idea for every page.
Afternoon naps and uninvited company.
Wings scratched, sewn, brutally tied onto my back
and forced to fly.
A hand for every face to cradle an unblemished cheek.
A silence for every room to fill.
A man for every minute of war.
One arm or leg or young boy from the slums
torn from a half emptied bowl.
Spoons, mettle forks are replaced with a plastic gun,
that will kill no one and defend nothing
but will lay on the oil-drained ground,
next to her first born son,
with a cardboard helmet,
as the scream of life goes horse
and the bodies are daydreams,
and the corpses are summer
and the suits buy a man for every minute of war.
One arm or leg or letter claiming god blessed this earth
and the heavens lurch with a sickness to great to expel.
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