With a violent pop a firecracker/flashback kicks up
the dirt stained with the same smells of dirty war, it comes alive
like a poem/a book/a random thought/a sign/a shape/a figure/
a metaphor, if not just a syllable:
An anti-poem, An anti-thought,
Random and Irrational-
My world turns one dada da-da da-da
movement at a time.
In warfighting years I am old
and dada is anti-war, but I
cherish the sounds and smells of battle
no less war
for all its booms pops and clicks,
the assault point a step beyond
always a moment/movement away-
One foot here another foot there
my mind somewhere between
the random lines of chaos on a collage.
But I'll never piss on a poem
to bring it back to life,
nor free enough to be
and I am very good for profit margins-
From where I come
the irrational can lead to death.