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The professors face them
like a firing squad –
papers in hand,
powerpoints to graph
all the statistics of fear
& language of technology to hide
Pentagon’s pestilential wars
O the complex of words
that sum up all the parabolas
of events of their young lives:
the empty pockets, the floods,
the disappearances
of kindred into thin air…
But do the kids care? Do they see?
Beyond what the minutes say
that their soft, green hearts’
are not what they have always
fantasized? Paris, New York,
Ayala & riding into the Hollywood sunset
happily…
O do they think they’re tough,
things bad won’t happen to them,
they can steer clear of their fathers’ path…
& those flocking into the rooms?
The future warriors – & scoundrels in time –
will both close their eyes
imagining their bodies
their singular bodies that will dictate
the raison of their acts,
the very pain & pleasure of their pulse,
because life is body itself,
the limits of death & immortality
none is accountable but to their bodies,
they will close their eyes
imagining how
they will navigate
like a boat
the sea that in the glimmer of light
is tempestuous & calm
& the language of their mentors
will echo across the hall
& into some Godforsaken corner
of the squalid land,
whose shadows
without powerpoints & microphones
will look at their gnarled hands
those sad, empty eyes
& they will do
what must be done.

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