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Storms

Tag.

running liquid

Stealing songs.

Typing.

Straddling pitchforks for a perfect union.

People are survived by their ashes and are built up by stone idols.

The oligarchal semen stain folds it's arms. Ever staring. I remember how I laughed at the ridiculous noises coming from open mouths. I denounce. I drive a plow through the weed bitten field you call contentment.

I am here. as here as i could be fathomed to be. Brood is blood. Vertigo hegemony. beginnings are just fronts for movement after ends.

I eat tofu sandwiches amongst the vegetation in the garden. The stalks of corn rise next to my ears. teasing the lobe with whispers of soups and keeshes. An aging idea is born once more among black beans and rice reaching the bottom of my kneecaps.

I might have been full of distance. Your words bite. so melancholic. choking up the very essence of hope. I can change things. Inches are nonsense. I seek metric. No, Maybe my own ideology of measurement. Resist. Resist. Resist I insist. Pack solidarity in a packed fist.