[Kumintang]

That blank space on your map, that’s where I was born.
The more blank your map, the more darkness for exploration.

Gold stars pinned to your chest for every military and civilian
slaughter, for every child defiled, for every rice field set ablaze,
for every leveled village, for every racial slur coined
in these blank spaces on your map, for every new howling
wilderness, for every incineration of flesh, for every gasoline
victory smell in the morning. Counting kill, your body is lost.
There is no hope for your spirit. Don’t try. Shit. Don’t dream.

Can you appreciate the neither here nor there of it all?
Think how soft now, your rot of a body. Your fucking filth.
Blood and whiskey, some homecoming.