Oyster Boy Review 08  
  January 1998
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» Levee 67



Thomas Rain Crowe

The war is over.
Let the war begin.

Let the happy where the sad roads met
sing songs of love to lovers lost in sand.
To time that gives birth to babies
born as men.
to men made by mothers, alone,
in the runaway dark.
Sounding like bells.

Let the forgiveness fall down on its knees
and beg.
Bring bad luck to beggars      banished from bread.
Feeding fire of forget-me-not lames
virgin of heat.

The war is over.
Let the war begin.

Let the eyes of guns go blind
in boathouses
and the girls beneath the bridges sell sex
to the red in no one's lags.
And the riches turn into rags
that scrub no floors.
Or sash death in someone's veins.

The war is over.
Let the war begin.

Let the wise ones laugh in oracles      at the truth.
The weak wail at walls while
the germs of genesis take over
the empty rooms in tears.
Claimed as abandoned land.
Now that the war is over,
let the war begin.
Be bad business for      the death of stars.
Be Romeos cruising the sunset with
their blue guitars.

The war is over.
Let the war begin.

Let the sound of big drums
do the dirty work and deed to the wicked
unlearned to laugh or
fall in love with the sky.
Let the sour breath of banks go sweet
as the sugar in cane.
Let the new horse rise from the battlegrounds
mulched in bones
be broadswords better than bombs.
Be bribery to those that are rich
sleepwalking the empty halls of dreams.
Halls full of sadness,      of screams.

The war is over.
gone home to harlots and red rooms.
Gone back to weeping mothers      and empty wombs.
Let the war begin.
Born virgin to the lips of wind
blowing mad horns.      Blowing hell
round the roots of tress      leveled by storms.
In this bright darkness.
This world of forms.

The war is over.

Let the war begin.