hate breeds hate--

. . . too often

strength won't work
for a pacifist.

does pacifism breed cowardice?

those who share your blood are certain
that you are wrong.

how does one decide between pen and a gun?
i doubt anybody has consciously chosen one over the other/

in a room/
and everybody pushing for the one window/
i'm standing in the back of this room/
kicking faces, tugging on hair and clothes,
they claw and squirm towards this one window/

and this room has everything/
it's all under the bed
and behind the curtains and hanging from the ceiling

but their eyes see the prize/
being this one window facing the sound
of a loud repetitive drum/

unknowable to the people fighting to get through,
those who have slipped through this camel's eye
are now beneath the room, grinding down into dust.

now bits and specks of spirit begin to drift back
into the room
through the window/

the air carries the remaining lives/
they receive a tour of a room they
never noticed before.

hovering above an angry crowd
that continue pushing and shoving,
thrusting and sweating,
pushing through a window/

and my back is to this wall
of a room and i'm holding a small pipe
to my mouth and a match in my hand/

the wind pushing and pulling
small, burnt, ripped and brown
paper through legs and arms/

it sticks to a bloodied stump
on a limp and indistinct
mound of flesh/