What is a Hate Crime: All crime, is a hate crime. Otherwise, you’ve been charged with something else. What is crime? Whether it exists in courts, in the ring, on the field, in the theater, or in your home, crime is hate. The question is, what’s the determination of hate, that is palpably justified, and hate, that is senseless. All hate is irrational, but not all crime is rational. Do you think a homeless man steals a television and pawns it to get money? Who took his money away, who is in the television set? It could be a charge, but if there’s an evil little man in that television set that took his cash, then it’s a crime. That’s art.
Formula: The formula is to be taken from a work of art that you enjoy, and you’ve already started using it, haven’t you. This is personal, this is yours, and it was always the cause, not at the beginning, but at the end.
Screen: The work that matches into the blades drawn, after the formulas are selected and the death rite of both blade fighters is guaranteed, from the blood on the freeway tossing the flag.
Notification: The fight has begun at the sitdown, a private incident in any culture. It isn’t a family meal, a party, a day at the store, even talking to your wife or a foreign leader. It’s that one moment, when an entire war breaks out, not just for one man, but all of you. It’s an ambush two ways, once the crimes break out, and all hell breaks loose.
Politics: A state of political anarchy that everyone thinks its private and personal, as the matches move into place, building up their suicide pacts, for a war that is to become not between provinces or states or countries or gangs or men, but inside the mind.
Dogfight: The flak hits and everything goes to shit, and then the survivors, print their work.
The Art: The view of the Gods, the Artistic Communities, plays upon the stage, the whole litany of errors, reversed for each defeated, and pantomimed as a hero for the guilty.
The Grave: Those that fought among us, We Criminals, die with canes and pistols matchlocked over Skulls, our kingdoms fought and destroy, and always, the guilty party looking down at us, entombed by themselves among the Parthenons.
The Cause: The same thing that started it. Not the beginning of your trip through literature, but the end. That one work, your guarded secret, was the real war.
Poetry Munitions 