You, aspirant, are

a radical revolutionary leader

who nonetheless attends regular rallies.

You are the figure of

peace in violence.

Standing beside the long table, where

liquor is served for soothing, you turn away

the congress to gaze into the late autumm

landscape with its lengthy waterless rivulets.

Your breast harbors its own viscous waters.

Three desperate lushes

have been driven in a pick-up

to the picnic ground. You offer each a glass of red jug

wine. Oblique afternoon sunlight glints on the rims

and reddens as you gather up the goblets.

By the time you return, bearing

cheap replacements, the evening is arid. Though serious

and sober, you type violence is out of fashion.

You turn into your house,

leaving the spoils behind.

An unsesonably warm breeze

is drifting through the screen doors and windows. As you

lie down, observing you, a figure

lies asleep in the living room. He understands. This

laziness must be conquered by Sleep or not at all.

Madison Morrison

A Warfilm is a Peacefilm