Confidently ready the blades on your forearms, guardian soldier,
hold them up as a dangerous defense, they’re like you I guess
except you sometimes gotta shoot kids, which is not your fault
we both know, it just seems like they don’t pay you enough
to gamble with your life the way you do in the increasingly violent sectarian skirmishes
that just overtook the apartment building that is your life and you couldn’t
save anything, doesn’t it?
I guess I’m just saying it’s impossible that I’ll feel
completely calm in my position, most of the time, but I think it’s possible
that some of you will be called upon to make a choice which goes against the spirit
of everything you believe, or thought you would accept if given
the world on a string in a box.
What if heaven starts like a sun rainbow,
and ends like a head-heavy rocket fart?
What do we do then except ask
to join the purgatory that exists on earth, as we’ve all been dead many times
before, but we keep coming back.
Heaven is empty
of permanent civilian citizens living year-round, mostly
because spirits come to know how valuable pain can be, and they keep
going back over and over again, just hoping against hope it will be better
this time, and it always is, inevitably.
This way the spirits came to view pain and pleasure
very differently than we do, or you do, I forget who was
talking about the way there are spirits addicted to heaven
but their aren’t, or maybe there are.
This one time a spirit came back and said he’d had a great life
this time, as he’d been devoted to exquisite beauty flowing passion
pores through him with the breath of life, and he said it was so beautiful
he didn’t notice that reality was slipping from him, until psychosis took hold
making him murder seven people and hold his wife hostage until through a megaphone
she tore his life from hers, and he blew his brains out.
The murderers soul lay in limbo for a time, stretching its mind
out as far as it could go, seeing the experiences of all people in all times
simultaneously, until it could see the justice of it, the fact that there is
no justice, and never could be.