CREDO

by Nick Jaina

I don’t want to learn to code
I want to be a poet
we can camp just off the road
no one will ever know it
oh wait I meant to turn this off
this constant faucet of my thoughts
they become my credo

I know poets make no money
but there’s a rhythm to it
and everybody thinks that’s funny
but they don’t listen to it
I want my words to travel far
live like the locals live
live inside my credo

who knows, who says
who can catalogue it all
who looks, what do they find
in the boughs of hallelujah

I am the one remaining soldier
of a war that gets stupider as it gets older
I wish I could crawl out of it
I ask for laughing gas they tell me they're all out of it

maybe I can be a chaplain
bearing witness to all the monumental things that happen
strange how thoughts like these can rattle your teeth
and ring your head like a sentimental Christmas wreath

and if you’re scared, just know that I’m scared too
and if you’re proud, just think how proud I am of you
we are happy in the wilderness
they have lenses that can filter this

there are some things that I regret
and some things that I honestly forget
we should name this war before it ends
otherwise it feels like we’re living in someone’s make-pretend

and if you’re wounded I’ll tear my shirt
make a tourniquet for where you hurt
I love your eyes in the symphonic sun
maybe there’s a war poets have already won

who knows, who says
who can catalogue it all
who looks, what do they find
in the boughs of hallelujah