chapter two: warrior poets

There will be warrior poets in the foxholes of low paying jobs. They will scratch out words with golf pencils on receipts from the golf pencil store. They will write about how there are no movies anymore, only things warrior poets do, and write poems about. They will mention that there aren't newspapers, either, only bloggers who are warrior poets, taking notes in the trenches of the working poor. They will say how there aren't novels, only chapbooks divided into the five hundred words that the best of warrior poets can stand to write down before falling asleep on the couch at the end of a harrowing day on the frontlines of money. They will also mention that they have run out of songs, because the only people alive that still make them are warrior poets, dug in deep outside the no-man's-land of homelessness. They will tell you to be happy you exist, because some people, like warrior poets, are not that lucky. These words will be viewed by many from a great distance. Then they will feel like warrior poets do, like they have conquered something, but that something still remains to be conquered. They will either fight wars so that people don't have to tell stories, or they will tell stories so that people don't have to fight wars. In either case they will be the warrior poets somebody else doesn't have to be.