consulate

behind the door there is a picture of the madonna
with child / without child
a moment in balance
between the sacred and the mundane
and she follows you around the room like a ghost.

In war there are no rules
there are actors there are victors there are victims
but there are no rules
that is the first thing you learn
when they hand you your rifle
your pitchfork
and show you the pointy end versus the fleshy bit. 

There is fire in the streets, where shit once lapped
at your cuffs in the rain
there are children hanging in the trees, like apples
crablike and sour

but there are no rules, there are generals
and emperors, and an endless river of souls
running red toward which ever sea will have them.

behind the door there is a picture of the madonna
there is a wooden cross there is a crescent moon
with stars / without stars
there is an effortless darkness
in the hearts of men, and it always shines through