Our Only Hope for Peace

Our only hope for Peace lies on the gum-riddled, spat-on brick sidewalk.

Dirtied, stepped on, about to be blown away.

Our only hope for peace. Passively waiting to be acknowledged, revealed. It waits to be accepted, followed, believed.

Walk by. Rushing. We’re late for class. We need to buy a gym pass so we can go and work out our asses so we can look good and make passes on the best people in the bar.

We don’t have time for thin, wavering arguments, without enough weight to hold them down. Just trying to be heard downtown on a busy street corner.

Call the coroner. It’s turning blue.

Why should I believe you? I have a million things to do. Bet you didn’t even go to school.

Our only hope for peace is wrinkled, slight, not many people think it’s right. It stays there all night, if not brushed away somewhere else, close by, far away. It’s here today, don’t really know what is has to say. (Do they?)

It doesn’t have a good look about it, ragged at the edges, wedged between an apple core and Bank of Montreal door. Looks sore.

'Our only hope for Peace' is right there, written on pale blue recycled paper. Didn’t even stop to pick it up. Would you?

Hold.

Hold your truth.

Hold your head up high.

Hold your lover’s hand and let him hold you.

Rest.

Rest your head on his shoulder,

Like you will when you get older.

Nothing’s perfect, not even love.

Being a Bigot

Not being a bigot means never knowing where you stand.

Not towing the party line means missing out on the conga line. Not feeling the buzz from celebratory line of shots on the bar.

Avoiding the boulder of conviction rolling over you, pace increasing from the mountain of rectitude means getting the cold shoulder from the two-dimensional people. The people who got shmushed.

We may agree, but should not march ever forward in the brigade of progress, our dicks out our pride impenetrable our opponents very penetrable.

Arrogance is not something to brag about.