the ketchup wars
whooping warriors of bloodless pretend wars
we ran, mugging fierce faces at each other as
we fell, graceless as bowling pins in faked suffering
the kind seen in the silence of marble chilled cinemas
the kind of ketchup killing
where rugged men rode ranges of firing rifles
stuffed with celluloid splendor of grace and always
always lived to ride home with clean hands
to some sweet lady holding her hair off her face
and their cows safe in the fence she had fixed
SCISSORS AND SPACKLE
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