|Maybe we’ve slipped under the mud with you. What does it mean when soldiers are called peace keepers? A means has become the end, a repetition, an unwanted mold, an unmarked grave. Our bones are getting mixed up.|
|Coming back from wars past you’d have difficulty adjusting. You’d wake up from murder and absurdity as if from a dream. It would seem as if lifetimes had gone by in your absence. You would be amazed to be conscious — to be alive. Seeing stars in the night sky might engender revelations. You would live in the moment without fear or emptiness.|
|But we’ve been dreaming all of my life. We are all asleep and it’s so strange to know it and not wake up. I keep meeting you on the TV, in shopping malls, in the dug up earth of condo developments. I see you trying to hold in your intestines behind the hosts on the set of Entertainment Tonight. I watch you crawling stealthily under IMF conference tables. Sometimes it looks from a distance like you’re pumping someone’s gas.|
|Peace isn’t what you thought it was — what you fought and died for.|
|Everyone’s been drafted.
I want to wake up.
Our bones are getting mixed up. We’re sleeping with you.
We’re rotting together but I’m not dead yet.
|I want to leave you behind in the ground for good.|