Militant Fool

wrinkled fellow lukewarm from aluminum heater
sits on bench in hotel lobby,
wrestling arthritis and plastic cups.

he thinks about when crimson sun melted the yolks
of his eyes back in spain, the brilliant bullets
forming tundras over chimney smoke veils.

coalitions of scarred young men,
clothes handed down from great grandfathers,
black soiled mud
on their onyx-stained chests,
walking faltered march for liberation
and collecting epitaphs for fascists.

drenched trenches making suffering winter
reprieve numb feet, veins catalysts
for pneumonia, the sounds of oblivion
echoing against church spires.

he rubs his cooling eyes
and takes his two absurd pills,
removing remainders of pain.

he wanted to plow holes
in the green catalonian beaked hills
so everyone could see how the country
felt about rupture.

– db

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