The paralysis I feel is
often pointless—
hence, paralysis.
No car accident put me
here, no irregular birth,
no experience out of my
control. Hitler sleeps on
my ceiling like a boyband
poster. He whispers
persuasive essays about
death, and I'm sorry that
I can't be Eva Peron.
So long I've fought in
the blue uniform—
fought off the red.
I'll soon brand my foot
with the blue like a buoy.
Anything to keep the battle of
death alive. My veins
injected with the blue.
We,
a blue bird
and a yellow one
on a power line. I see
you inching toward the
pole. I see the line
leaning—
Hitler pulls on one end.
I'd inch away from me too.
My nonignorance is such
nonbliss.
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