We're here staring,
digesting capricious sweeps
on a mundane kitchen floor-.
T'with a head right on a baseball bat,
whiffing of annulation.
We smoke gaspers,
call them hackers,
we had a mass shootin,
call'd it- keeping with the news.
Imagine you, organic beyond all fixing- having-too-much-fun.
I imagine some quota of slack
packed neatly between and around any fact.
Where you are without fail,
stuck with a nail to a glowing (s)hell, crucified,
a typified suffering;
mine is a special brew made right here in Idaho,
where I am- pecked by an by-
where you are-a specter of flaws - mirthlessly known.
