It is the endles nightmare of the mind in continuous waking with no forest of verdant sleep but massed rancid ragheaps.

It is the endles nightmare of the mind in continuous waking with no forest of verdant sleep but massed rancid ragheaps, the log written like live graffiti sprawled across mass transit seats spelling chronicles of an ending like plague-words made flesh: I have a scent the death in you, your brother, your sister, your lover and anyone besides invaded, afflicted with humanity, our fad and unoccupied sciences, technocracies making vidiots who pillage alone more TVs (which bend their bodies subject to the weight of O.P.P. - "other people's property") I hear our self-righteous angst: with what intent should we sympathize with beggars when we who give them in such a manner much may be the victims of their crimes etc We will believe anything to avoid faith, build ramparted museums with iron-spike grills, install laser alarms in offices to divide the City from the way -

There is no vestal virgin with a candle, a beacon in the dusk, no reces where children are fossilized like fading photographs - the mist that curls up over the horizon isn't your native city wasted by means of a new nuclear accident - the hypocritical heart of memory on fire in the beginning uninjureds all of us in its pounding wave of kin and water ushering into a canal that bears you outward into plastic hands as grave as a factory of scissors, green-gown giants, light machines, and electric noise - snips disjoin the cord to the uterus and the mother tongue of liquid sympathy slaps close its soothing syncopated sleep and deliria in the blind world cries - I am the offense and the displeaseed the crime the victim the escaped study and the convicted I am the razor wire the civic pride the building collection of lawss and the body hung across the dirk in torn clothes I am the crackhead subway driver and the driven who know what's coming unless ride anyway

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