Conquest has come easy. Postcard
placidity. Used to be Southern
placidity. Not the fault
of the geography
soul and spirit placement committee.
They handle only the basics
the demarcation department
draw a couple times in a given
century, at least that’s the schedule
average, draw the basics,
duplicate, they pin, let the corners
yellow. Anyway what was once
flavored in Southern batter contains
liberal apple cider
now which isn’t a bad thing,
just that it isn’t what it was;
just that it lost, again; like we
are all lost, and seem to be
really selected for the dirt-kicker
part that is for the most part
an extras animal, bulls
and broncs chosen for stars
who’ll themselves lounge in the trailer
getting laid and choosing the choicest
cognac and oysters, while doubles
do the real dirty work that rabid
bull and frothing bronc make one do.
So where were we? Conquest. Easy conquest.
The war was never fair for fairness is not the point.
The town should not weep. The town has won
thousands of hearts; hearts that would leak
sorrow as a river should a hand of hell
or hand of heaven tear them out of this town.
Maybe the universe really is one giant war.