This is not a televised sensation flying with spit.
This is not the winter of 1943.
This is not mud in the mouth or face in the ditch.

We are tired of your missives,
sent in flowers
and toilet paper
and fists.

This is not a slot machine
where everyone rolls a cherry blossom.
This is not a Marxist–Buddhist perspective
where you suddenly see the interpenetration of all things.

We,
the thieves of paper hearts,
have never believed the florist —
who else would lie so extravagantly? —
or the dentists

or any other bureaucrats
who tickertape through our cells.

We choose our own scribes,
historians, tattooists, artists, alchemists.

We reject
your singleness of vision,
where you call law and you call order.

Through magic and cell phones, we brought ourselves into being,
and we are breathless with it.