Crossing that Canadian line on a visitor pass,
that
stretch across the border divide,
that
makes a torn war wound, torn man free.
It made
my feet new away from red cinder land on fresh grass.
Back home
the sirens of war keep sounding off,
like
common masturbation from one decade to another.
All us
wearing new/old bloodstains,
poetry
images of erections coming up, WW2, a real war.
My dirty
hands, on your hands, our memories shared red, white and blue justified, hell.
Who does
not have memories, bad cinder charcoal smoke screen in the dark flame?
September
comes early in Canada-October in the USA.
Leaves
fall early swirling in touchdowns both sides of the border.
September
north, but at least the bullets cease.
Cast a
poem South, you likely die in Vietnam or come back wounded.
Cast a
poem North, you likely suffers mental illness but come back on pills.
Here
comes again, thunder, in the rain, stroke by lightening,
war bore
crossing a border divide.
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