Patroclus does not want to die a victim of his own sweetness,
masked by the anxiety of pervasive [contemporary] aggression;
the embarrassment of the city busy behind Achilles’ shield
was not meant to be worn,
the incontinence of bloodstains on Achilles’ harness,
marching with the empty, stereotyped rush
of every post-modern hero
across the polluted sands of a Po Valley Troy.
Hector does not want to repeat the same gestures in a loop:
steer the chariot, aim, plunge the spear into the heart –
plunge the spear into the heart, aim, steer the chariot;
a rugged warrior takes no pleasure in seeing women’s tears or horses’ pain,
focused on finding the right farewell words for his wife,
anti-Dionysian deus ex machina, slot machine, ready to wield
Patroclus, the proper mechanisms of reasoning, honor, nation, family.
Achilles does not want to howl his frustrated rage,
rushing torn, dazed, bewildered, onto the battlefield road;
rabid pit bulls fall with a lethal dose of antidepressant,
drag corpses from chariots, shred garments, abduct Danaean priestesses,
unable to negotiate affection with the glory of a father,
repeating himself endlessly, a surviving Siamese twin.
Patroclus must not die, forcing us to toast to a three-card game where
sweetness wins, reason wins, vitality wins –
sweetness loses, reason loses, vitality loses-
Patroclus dies, Hector dies, Achilles dies, everyone dies,
reason pierced, sweetness succumbs to an unfinished life,
and we, forced to mediate, never middle-max heroes, mass-media martyrs,
remain singing halfway, condemned to stay halved.