i’m feeling very metal-parts today.
must be something i ate.

sentience on morning glory colored ridge-backs,
rambling style colonial-militias
holding target practice training
using mountains to block bullets.

silence bleeds between borders of music and noise;
they’ve been told once,
now i’ll tell ’em about contortionists,
mimicry, hunger & stay-at-home mothers
breast feeding a damn seven year old idea
under arc-sodium lights far from
the local scene. green grass stadiums
will have to be enough.

they make real killers there too;
though it’s all fuckin’ victim’s memorials now.
i know someone who’s been there, seen those
goddamn granite stones coated with
church-service silence
while withdrawal
sickness plays out. none of the junkies
got shot, and there aren’t any saving graces
for the ones that were. are.

scary place, no?

as the over-reaction wanes,
the survivors flee the county
for safety in suburban climes while
those of us too addicted
to the farm and manure smelling spring winds
just lay around too stoned out on
epistemology to care about
bullets or blame or bullshit. they make real killers
up there too; what’s the point?
winds blow, bells chime,
mortarboards… mortar?
damn tassel in the right eye,
then the left.

sometimes i guess it’s better
not to see.

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