TRANSFUSIONS BY THE PINT

THE PEN, THE KEYS, THE MICROPHONE i think they expected blood when they first cut him with their razor sharp piano wires wrong ink not blood cells flowed poems and stories plays, essays and jokes his ideas her thoughts spilled unto the streets covered the concrete the pavement too each and every dash of white that mark the roads a verse became first one and then another lined up in a chaotic disciplined structured straight double line the yellow lines bucked fought like wild stallions but eventually she won and he corralled them into simple thoughts they came looking for death they found us we don’t bleed i warned them they are morally blind deaf dumb they dare to raise a foil the pen is and always will be mightier than the sword the moral i fear you can not delete satisfy pay off over feed a taste for meat humans came upon the earth violent the species behave like vampire left to their own devices one day we would be down to one and the winner is we all know how that story ends we will not let it happen pens in hand we will write swirl curl punctuate underline we will strike the keyboard like drums of peace or even speak through a microphone thing we will win by any peaceful means a ruthless peace be afraid be very afraid we are armed olive branches words of love poignant full circle ideas we are armed with the word one En Guard Armand Hamouth