Does one not brood over
whatever mayhem comes
abducting coarsest sub
stitutes to the coming

of nearest Fact not yet
seen? Staked out—like
lingering fingers unstitching
one's coat, like touch's

nectar—this runaway love
having gone through every
horizon of one's heart,
spoiling the thus-and-so

of one's delirium with the
intent to shake the prairie
into unclear space, hobbling
along like a horse with a

broken leg, pushing through
pretending to progress neatly
without a devastating pinpoint,
like squashing squash blossoms.



I refuse to make a prediction, so I'll tell you a story. 

A man & his ego walk together hand-in-hand, until

he's humbled by what he had feared the most. 

He's now bleeding on a gurney with a bullet in his

stomach while police officers beat on his wrists. 

He's tied down to a hospital bed. He begs the officers

to stop the abuse. They refuse & keep hitting him

& and the doctor rushes into the room. "Stop them!" 

the man on the gurney yells to the doctor. The doctor

responds by telling him to shut up. The officers keep

beating him, spitting on him. The man on gurney begins

spitting back at the officers; lungsful of blood 

directly into their faces. The officers run out of the room. 

The man passes out.