Dreams of dawns dew, firmament, a poetic as an act will ever be , watching at the window side, seeing streaks of black, sleeting across the wall, into the wall.
Police lights flash in repetitive patterns on the asphalt between the kids sneakers, his knees shaking', fear of broken kneecaps, future/past generational terror of serfs always seeking redress for the habituated and enshrined, traditional justice system in the world that tortures, and kills, and enslaves, with out concern for anyone. . . but themselves and their kind. Perhaps it is just a show, a story line, that could be true here or in Peru.Then the traditional escalation of blame and appeasement that comes when you wake up feeling the contraction hit you; looking at yourself; trying to differentiate from slave or heretic waiting for their doom. Good luck not getting wet in the rain on the way home from the show.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
