The tone the rubber lips the very place to know truth is death.
The ancient paintings the broken the unjust the stand of justice
whose blood is over the whole of the World.

The poem. The Freedom.

See the world at the corner with satiated eyes, the plastic agony of
people as cold fish of materialism to hear alone in silence what
happens with people.

The false plans for a white picket fence or a farm.

Now the strange beauty of love, a wildness of eyes.

Now loneliness in silent woods. The car hides behind cows.
The missing girl — the lost princess with tears in the rain.

That night we are alone with coldness and wet. A silent god
and screams within an ear.

Looking through the glass Through the glass
Peering into the glass Not going to be today Not going to be
the women who are the hero.

The sight of old resistance.
Vultures are living souls.
A car yes, blue cloud.
A flying trail runaways into evening.
A faceless youth a guileless submissive.
I think of Degas how he moved.
The ticklish and playful strokes of the needle.
The giant fists of past and present.
The whispered pleas I am asleep am I
More lively the supple breeze.
Shrill night the grieving of loveless minds.
Exhausted groups crashing into each other.
Blood-thirsty men from reality strangling hallucinating
Mother heaving out her new babies.

While Liquor stains the gap conjuring the sun, his defeat beside the shadowed bed.
And as I enter under that roof it is with tender kisses of the flesh.

I think of the scrapers of little hearts who spit at my shame.
What and how the night has passed.

The old man looked long over the blood over the whole Of the world.

The poem and the freedom to see the world at the corner With satiated eyes.
The plastic agony of a person.
Cold fish of materialism.
To hear alone and in silence what happens with people.

The false plans for a farm now the strange beauty of love.
The wildness of the eyes. Now the loneliness in the silent woods.
The car hides behind the cows.

Tonight.

:: 03.20.2022 ::