Feb. 11th, 2016

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Over the desert they built a garden.
Out past the gate there was World War II.
Alone, mid-war, sat a giant samurai.

Or: Under their garden they'd spread a desert.
Waking at night they met World War II.
Dying they met the lost eyes of a samurai.

No, there's only a desert. Let's make it a garden.
Pour out the last canteens of World War II.
Samurai know there was never a samurai.

England and France never met a desert.
What they meant by desert we'd think of as garden.
But all knew real desert by World War II.
After the War we all shut up and gardened.
Don't say word one about samurai.

The samurai was lonely.
His head and torso, far evolved in directions strange and hard and beautiful so as to still breathe inside death, ached and sighed.
His sight found no purchase but there downhill where the folk of the forest milled about, endlessly arguing, hands in the air, about deserts and gardens they only imagined.
He wanted to kill them for not baking cakes while dancing in circles and kissing their mothers that none were born samurai.

At 471A Garden Circle out by the edge of town where every night the animals and stars of the desert scratched unwanted fur off on the corners of our house a small but sturdy brick and board-er built by short and cautious relatives right after World War II we would sometimes talk of samurai in movies drinking cocoa in the kitchen.

"They knew what they were doing." "But never whether they should do it." "They saw where they were going." "Yet not where it would get them." "Still, it gave a point to living." "Though it made all living dying." "They were cool." "I like their hats."

At the samurai store in the mall in a closet they keep World War II. In lulls of the looping hip-hop you can hear it: like someone pouring deserts into gardens.


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