Clouds are mist at a distance
But when you wave your hands around them
they just get wet.
no poetry lately / wrung free from indifference
no words / too busy
looking at bright red coffee machines
I see severed heads
and turmoil
a field of corn here
1000 years previously
a boy leads his horse to drink
at the edge of the magic lake
counting the cracks in the sidewalk
aimlessly I dive into the lake
its made of fire on one side
water on the other
Not in either place
a small price to pay
watching a white van speed by
windows blacked out
with duct tape mystery
thuggish hieroglyphics
scrawled like manifesto posturing
go by as animated strips
in an rotoscoped vision of the damned
belies the plumbing parts and old xrays
I want to throw rocks
drown the fire out
but not so much
good happening
here flapping my
invisible hands
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