zero one

zero one

poems by leum

O admit it un tautology of society whatever society of tautology admitted an eternal internal external struggle slow like snow another zero one and the hanging of the sunflowers.

We have seen a whole world ruled by a handful of men.

No two from one country.

- Richmond Lattimore

for Ma & Pa

O given freedom we dont take it couldnt tell you why let out a snake from its cage wont even bite

admit it some can only hope the world will love you back you love daisies but the city hands you cauliflowers wildflowers in your hair cut off by the wrong hands you are a burden to your father your mother is somewhere else in the wilderness of some country amber trees missing the world says let go of my hand but she is hanging from a cliff her nails gripping your flesh slipping

un One, where positivity derives from, where the rainbow sets, the chest surrounded by the absence of a chest.

Stipulations of assimilating simulations, programs gone rogue, stimulation agendas in browsers, web pages and search engines across the country's countryside, courts overruling underlying comments, settled forums without a back-to-the-top link.

Integral hardware built to last the four seasons, the hardship of death a ride away.

Horse-powered viruses forwarded to a shed, ready to be cooked. Towers fed, power to last a lady's eye of a hurricane, thumb-up cyst giving the go-to for walking into lava, gatherings of incest awaiting awaited trial, a bundle of bumblebees nailing coffins, wanting too much, not wanting enough.

Manipulations two-fold, two-dimensional, the flip of a coin dictating either difficulty or decoration, whether there will be or be not. Our hands chisel statues of hands, our reflections in the clouds. Walking through a nightmare to wake in a dream, a lot more blood than ink spilled. If I must go through scorching heat, traverse the desert to find ends meet, let the witch in me melt. Soon enough, you will be just a quote, and I a painting.

tautology of society for Daniel, for Tata Numbers most numb.

Beckham like Beck and ham, only nicer, richer than ham.

Dice in tossing a dime, bets sufficed.

Some delectable matches lighting on the first match.

What do pigs do best? Eat lamb.

Dan, the world began with even & odd at odds & even.

You say money rules the world. Holds you by the hands while you dangle your legs.

Pegs for legs.

Diamonds for horses. Cardiac arrest for cattle with cardiac arrest. Bankers attest that our money is safe in Wall St. A big wall it is, indeed. Bugs crawling all around it. And where the messengers we sent in to attest that our money is safe in Wall St? Graffiti on the streets.

Exits blocked off, police barricading the streets from the pavement.

Detours all around.

Same dance, different day.

Boat houses for boats. Bird houses next to a Middle Eastern home in South Florida, ducks crossing the road to converse once again with quacks & chirps.

Catering to yachts, business is booming.

Trucks hauling bigger trucks, such metropolis. Every page of the local paper screaming success.

FRS in the prospects. Two-thousand five just a year that happened once or twice.

Third Saturday in working six days a week, the prayer saved for the seventh.

The world began with water and air, before then it was just a molten rock of lead.

Hotel prices oeuvre-skyrocketing, each new raise a masterpiece.

Empty school buses taking up traffic.

Newer models, beret-barking baselines.

Teenagers grabbing their last days alive before they flutter away like butterflies.

Taxis advertising pornography, offering free escorts for a month, promoting free business, representing businesses across the nation.

No Twinkies in the gas station.

Goat for pork, dog for bone.

National freaks, TV Show idol worshippers, God-Killers, ye of little faith, so little fate resting on thee: Where be your Master? It is Easter. Who to worship today, Christ or the Bunny.

Such persistent questions, such resistance.

And then the beckoning.

News declining to raise a comment.

Expiration ringing through the loudspeakers.

Pleasure and pressure in the same sentence.

The world began with numbers according to a past issue in the Scientific American.

How American, barbecue on Saturday, Sunday threats of lightning, then Monday Night Football the whole night.

No question to that.

And then the reckoning.

Rain following.

Last week, you called me in a blur of blue sirens, my hand aching to pick at their songs.

Not even prayer.

The world began with Adam and Eve, the serpent waiting for the right time to strike.

First you had an eye, then you had two.

Now, on three, what do you believe?

Dicks and hoes got you low?

So you fell in a well and think it hell.

Landing on a tree, still holding onto branches.

Cat asking for dinner, waiting. The night old as truth be told. Station wagons placed throughout railroads. Cameras picturing the end of days, ghosts straddling through the woods.

Campfire in the living room going out.

Not even prayer.

Forgive my manners. Put my hands together tight. Closed lashes.

And then water.

Filling in the bucket pouring on the grass.

Grow something new, like grapes or a bouquet of rosemaries.

Master, it is Easter.

Christ or the Bunny.

Flocks flying near, flocks flying away.

Free as the day.

Palm tree leaves blending with the cement.

Chants under a holy roof, Jesus outside with only six fingers, the thumbs and forefingers missing.

Smoking in the church restrooms.

There is no constitution inside these walls.

What dangerous foundations these bodies lay in, under the cement.

Couples dead in the same year, nineteen eighty-one.

The world began anno domini.

Grandfather's plaque smudged with opaque dirt.

A new tree blossoms from the bark of a tree.

Until we meet again, old man, before the world began.

The beacon of the radio tower is lit.

Trees always waiting for rain to stroll.

We beat the train this time, passing its tracks.

Now we sit playing guitar to the stars in the Everglades.

The title, a Walmart at the edge of Cooper City.

Planting the first rose in a garden.

Laurel seeds packed in the soil, ready.

A rainbow of hands flipping coins wishing to the sprouts of a nearby fountain.

Palindromes across the night sky.

However far sees the eye.

whatever Whosoever bought the tick of the clock holds dominion over waterfalls and the landing of each droplet. So many want to be followed like a movie star into the bright night sky of Hollywood Ave, so few lead to follow a Monarch sailing away from the monarchy, past the oligarchy to present toward their own sacred given name.

What to say, what to say when the train arrives and passengers breeze from morning to day, what to do with my breath when we meet.

Harrowing the years are when we sweat them off. Building the pyramid brick by clamoring brick, worshiping them apiece eternally in its entirety. Holding onto your knees cause you can’t breathe, the emergency room only a few yards away. Kissing the feet of strangers, taking a step closer to first class.

My deathbed empty at the side of the road, a generation within a batch of sunflowers.

society of tautology for Simon, for Amber, for that old man at the corner of Rock Island and Southgate and for Pa Old books talking old.

Camcorders remembering parks and slides.

Cesspools of mirrors, system of quartz.

Abundance in menu items— you.

Having more than your neighbor, talking cheap to cheat your way in to dope rides on a Jaguar racing against a Viper.

Having nothing in your bank account, zero, the original infinity. And beyond, finches holding onto the hinges of branches, the hunch of taking a step too far, talking small to cashiers while chatting up the waitress to a waltz.

How much the touch.

Mother’s day celebrated on different days this year than last year on different pointing fingers on the globe. Smiles reserved for familiars, scolding notices of being annulled.

Usual routine of setting and cleaning up crime scenes, the scheme of being safe with taller fences, annotated trees marked with ribbons of orange hugging, insinuating, waiting for the departure by an axe, by the clean slit of being selfless.

Knowing others by what they wear and how they eat. Based on common norms, terms indicate reproach and resentment.

Lampposts crawling with cicadas, doorways surrounded by cicadas, such is life.

Has it become your new drug to stab my heart?

Time and distance a factor in each decision.

Swathe not the fear of death is what the horn says.

Railroad tracks having more to say these days— what fun, a sum of hum and dum at the local county clerk's office, great shadows we must become, a constitution of shrubs and doves.

Holy serenity that liquid shop down the corner, where we turn rusty bodies to gold.

Prayers before the morning usual of imprinting beads on others without permission.

Early in the evening, shutters drawn.

Paint still drying from the rain.

Asking and answering, shopping customs at coffee shops open the whole day.

Low on fuel in a city that cares about its taxes more than it does the unemployment rate.

Homeless and hungry a staple for medians, where to get a job that pays more than it lays rotten eggs. Insulating air conditioners installed and cleaned the first thirty minutes or your money back.

Extraordinary, extravagant, read ill about it.

Where is the newspaper with the bloody front cover stains?

Where will the lukewarm be the days honey baby and darling die?

Divided we are by highways, the moon an old telephone, the stars poles to climb on and slide down to. Trees with different tunes to listen to. Webs of roads intersecting at various intersections. Interactions of town folk banter at the local county fair.

The night time sky in the woods like the dark side of the moon. Rings still ringing from the fireworks, the shots of firearms.

The sound of crickets in a choir, violins, violas and cellos all tuned to odd trinkets, angels in the audience applauding aloud, angels disguised as birds, drinking their champagne and merlot.

Wires crossing the streets, flirting fleeting floating flowing waving, saying hello and goodbye each time.

Choppers going north, four-wheelers south to the beaches of Hialeah.

Smoke from the prairie about a mile North West from here, near Pines.

Images surely passing, fading.

PolicĂ­a, hola, what's happening.

Another domestic case, another cliffhanger.

A womb of a woman pushing a cart in the rain, tugging a black cat behind her, going under the cover of a bus stop roof between heavy traffic, train-skipping somewhere in Tally, hidden hobo hole inside a turnpike in a rich city far from Miami, jokes on a family table, misunderstood kids in foster homes.

Authorities fishing with their hooks protecting gold from sewage.

Atrocities this surgery of a society makes.

Spicy ramen in stock whosoever takes a cock from its hay.

Anchovies for pussies cause of last week's pay; you following me?

Badda bing making rice, badda boom be home soon, badda bam nothing else to eat, badda pop staring at the plates of others.

This canvas of canvases, this behaved dusty basement with hammered tags of permanent ornaments sprayed, avoiding the floor for the most part.

Welcome to the Grand Seminole Station, history sitting idle handing out tickets like it's the Fourth of July.

Crossroad honks after nine at my missing you after all.

Congregation of rats below the bridge picking at bread on the low.

Flashing headlights, congestion on the Palmetto again, accidents from drag racing.

Cars parked at the side of Okeechobee US27

watching drifters barely inch away from a bad accident.

Cops pulling over cars to the middle of i95, auto-accidents parked in the middle of i95, robots cleaning the floors of houses without interruption, the begging for the end, the beginning of the encyclopedia.

Mandando un fax the Venezuelan way, hearing about shit on the floor of Moe's.

Rare to find an acre without a bull.

Birds disguised as houses, houses disguised as abandoned streets, such perfidious machines cleaning the streets, taking up two lanes at a time.

The beginning of the encyclopedia.

Dogs chasing butterflies in some movie with my little brother in some house, home where my heart left.

Still loving you from North West One Hundred Forty Second Street.

Express lanes for each way.

My fucking heart, baby, fucking my heart.

Anna Marie overdosing under the bridge, right at the light, going in the dirt.

Living as much as such, stories by the corner shop, drinking coke in a pool, left at the light there, riding a bike all over only asking for a hey.

How many yards before the ball touchdowns?

How many waves of light till a particle appears?

Being accused of killing my baby, kept in the cellar for four days.

Did you kill my baby?

The man in the sky really knows how to fuck you.

A guy in a bike knowing more than a businessman.

Pills given from shady folks.

Lions in South Africa tearing the neck to teach the younglings how to kill, coyotes acknowledging their prey.

If He ever meets those shady folks.

Gas station clerk tired of the chit chat

between two old bums meeting again, late night again.

The words get the fuck out of here replaying again in my head and again.

God bless you goodbyes.

Staying under the cover of trees to avoid life, to avoid the rain.

And to checking whether your purse is in the car or under an umbrella; you follow me, me follow you.

Lying to get the truth.

US1 packed with the feds, lights blue and red.

Who else is dead? How can no blood be shed from this?

Gravity a sinner.

The eye of Mordor still open, still furious.

Switching channels on a Monday routine, the radio playing the same damn shit over and over till you get old and agitated over the situation, a constant mess, each second the battlefield for success, avoiding death.

A war between numbers and letters.

How many failures must you take and acknowledge before the crimson dawn of eternal sunsets.

What good are you lately?

Alone in the midst of a wilderness, growing in the mist of times foul, and fortune hungry for more fortune, where do the best go on this list you have prepared for my sunset, fortune's fate and fate's fortune on opposite columns on a sheet of paper made of lotus to compare and contrast dinners from desserts, lava cakes ready to take the cake.

Biscayne motels ready for the night, always open the gate. Who else is here in this society making a living off suffering?

The human voice the most beautiful noise.

Roses sold at five bucks a pop, water bottles for ten, roads

becoming stores to pick at.

The war between Wal-Mart and Target, K-Mart practically in every impossible location—vocation—vacation important.

Let me tell you the story of Christ.

When the romans met Jesus, they cut His hair off.

What ludicrous, right, Christ?

Waking up when the sun wakes up, without the blinds, without the curtains, we ride, write, read and play, we live everyday as tools, fools, zip-lines and backpacks scourging the mountainside.

Benzene rings in Super Bowl rings.

Eighteenth floor the ideal for a fall, pet roaches for the kitchen, a train and a plane discussing and dismissing topics old and new, sirens in the distance pronouncing death at a certain second.

Asking for loyalty, getting only honesty.

An emergency requiring the authorities necessary for such a situation of nine minute slow downs for God knows what.

Still sticking it to the Man, stuck still in a lightning thunder-struck stroll in a win-win top-down well-known meeting with the Reaper.

Why the same page?

What does this page say?

The light in the darkness is birth.

Florida East Coast trains going North East taking their time passing by, each cart a line of seconds.

One day birds will stay in dreams, one day bees and butterflies might never wake up, antennae coiled together forever.

And the flies? There, as clear as the day on a sunny way of saying no, I miss you.

Almost being squished and squashed away from a total stop in traffic.

Fire Department, time nine-eleven, so tragic.

The memories don't have a say in whether they leave or stay.

We solely pick the card in a magic trick.

We choose which heads to hang loose in the flip of a coin.

We might be okay if we play our decks right, avoiding a catastrophe of another Holocaust, Yin and Yang still folding each hand, seeing what the other will do first.

There's a lot at stake here, so pass the steak if you wanna make it out of dinner alive.

Still not going in the dirt, not where my brothers and fathers lie, not where you see that hole over there?

Not in that quadrilateral well.

But what about that shadowy place over there? Avoid the woods, child, soon you will be where the lions eat.

Get the fuck out of here.

Having a feast like going to church: overpriced and unmarked dough to snuff on.

Touching a man's vehicle a threat for death.

Cranes moving things on the A1A unnoticed.

Nude beaches, getting drunk without you.

Roads hovering above roads, birds bothered by idol pillars walking over their crumbs.

What will it take to love sunflowers growing out between the cracks of ramps, or beach seashells collected monthly?

What will make for prizes without prices?

Planning the next field trip to the forest with my little brother, maybe?

What to think with all the moths around, clothes hung up and untouched for weeks.

Spiders claiming they can hang from clouds, caterpillars overrun by centipedes.

With so many ads going around lately, where's the rush to take off for shopping?

Sleepy during i95 rush hour, exhausted from foggy mornings and cold showers, why the rush to play dead?

Introduced was the hood, asking to stay dead.

Damn, playing checkers on a chess-blanket.

Damn, you not being here.

Time is a rude motherfucker, hiding up bodies by i95.

Getting used to it being stuffy on occasion, getting used to losing you.

Mi amor, mi tesoro, mi querido, mi corazรณn, my truth, tanto tiempo sin tus ojos; you used to have so much faith in us.

Still see where you left your carpet, still see roots hanging from your drawer, still see you from the kitchen window, still watch you on the TV screen.

Still look for butterflies to get more wings, still have moths flying around me, still wish for you to look after me.

Still, still, still.

Still know where to turn after the exit, still forgetting lines for the play, still forfeiting from the match.

Still holding your hair between my lips, the brands running from my fingers.

Still counting the bees.

Where did we go the day we died?

Was it outside for a quick stroll before hitting the bus stop at the corner and dashing off the corridor set?

Was the play rerun over and over before calling it quits for the night?

Did they ever get the right substitutes for us?

How much we yelled when playing other roles.

How so we took other than our own.

How well we yelled to get excellent, but not perfect.

Best two out of three, but not a shake more; my hand is aching from all the breaking freaking creaking sounds this house makes.

Not a handshake more.

And what is my name, my lady? Dear whatever we are, still see magenta and maroon breezing by the interstate, a Red Road home,

eyes staring the sky down, colors matching each other.

admitted Need proper clearance to enter the building.

Patient denied. Faces as the new thumbprint for clearance. Welcome to the punctual body of now. No goodbyes given. Space, the old frontier. To become the One the hip goal of Mankind, intent manifested by hands & hands, the lot of them raised up to respond against the picket signs on the other side of the fence. Sighs echoed on either plate of the equator, denial of healthcare for some while services are duly authorized by state of officials for state of officials. Oblivion a barren land, a common wasteland, a plateau reached in minutes.

Turning into the moon & back, a loop-the-loop in a rollercoaster spanning the entire fair, a Ferris wheel rotating endlessly, the amusement park selling tickets hourly, VIP sections exclusively funded by hedge funds for hedge funds.

Fines for incorrectly footed steps on designated sidewalks, parking ticket prices for baggage not fitted with the right measurements.

Don't make any sudden movements.

Okay, now you can move.

an eternal internal external struggle for Andrea Crowds on lampposts, especially vultures, preying for dead cherries on roads, praying, whether it be man-made or pristine.

Migrating flocks painting in the sky a fading portrait only bees can interpret.

slow like snow Ophidian, and you & I, crafted with scales weighing our tails with heads, dancing ashes, the flick of fireflies, we both with wants - you ruling the router, me singing vexing probes, proof of unearned stature among the waves, the gushing of butterflies atop the trees, slow like snow along the coast, wails, furniture, decaying rotten teeth of gold.

Banned landmarks, past flags, Mohican burial sites drowning below.

Indigo blossoms speak their first night, a skeleton against the current reaching out for its beauty resting in a frame above.

another for Jean Carlos Sepulcher from my lips, maples & oaks fretting an acre of wood.

zero one for Chris Impervious city of steel and hardwire.

Martial law soon, boohoo.

REX-84. Walking unscathed from the wreckage. Change for the better in the register, more brick and brass and less grass.

Biggie and Tupac killed by the Illuminati.

Or so the story goes, according to tomorrow's headlines, the local paper stating otherwise what banks and rivers have been saying the whole time.

The National Association of Agencies has stipulated that this is not the first time it's happened, that any person of knowing willing to tattle-tell would be willing to swing with the rivers themselves knowing just how damn well cold them rivers can get. It's forecasted that moving large quantities of populations copulates with a large amount of loss in number, detailing the necessary postulates in coercing the people under one government.

Not that such a lost would be unnecessary, only that a better solution is suggested.

Nationalists agree. Rationalists are thinking about it. The Senate & the House could care less, at least the Majority. Minorities are discussing with the Ministries of Church and Education on the finer things in life.

What madness! To hold by the wings a bee as it stings.

Label companies giving up donations by the bucket in hopes of securing a seat in the next ship of Noah. Scared yet?

This is the tenth floor, the level of Saturn.

After this, you can get to Heaven.

Don’t know this big bad boy?

The guy with the scythe?

Just making connections here.

Let’s get back to the topic, the reason why the sun is worshiped and not

the sky. Our discussion stems from the main area of Area 51, the conspiracy of Ra. There is a burning bush near the mountains as seen by Moses that caught fire either by binary Sirius or by an unknown force that has yet to be explained by Science. Newton, a great alchemist, Chemistry equations lingering in the head, talking about them upon waking up, dreaming about formulae. What horse manure donkey shits the idea of no other side to the painting.

Knowing few the depth of the caves in springs, knowing few how deep the ocean floor can get.

Jesus walked on water, as seen by Peter.

Does it hurt when that name is said?

How far away is away when you walked away?

Scratches on the wall getting to ya?

Scratches on your back? Who else knows what you think of when you have your back behind His back? When you look away while He is latched and slashed away.

His face is torn to pieces. Have you seen it?

Remember, you must. No tears from ye?

He is outside, will you invite Him in?

Better to stay outside than to die inside, too many souls lost in this building already still trying to find their way back to Heaven.

Garden snakes asking, persisting, insisting, dogs chasing and cussing them away.

Say no to incorporation, vote yes for taxes.

Mount Olympus just a climb away.

Healthcare for those on duty, school bus drivers paid minimum wage, the law states you must walk a certain way.

Nice windy breeze, the weatherman says, a good thorough walk around the park all that's needed, according to the mayor.

Construction disrupting discussions.

Sometimes a good fuck's all that's needed.

Robins query, cloisters of flies underneath street lamps, par two for Hole 15, the last hole before the flutter of dragonflies, where monarchs lead and the ibises call home. Squirrels and their trees fortified by years of mortified wounds, pounds of labor equal to tons of trunks, calling tails each bet, each trial a trail for the train to pass through, oasis real somewhere else. Walking on grass barefoot not like jogging along the designated path.

With the right gear, any mountain's a hill.

And here it is, Hole 16, the tower of the Presidential Country Club.

A magnificent golf course for slaves who consider wealth proportional to the amount of branches hacked.

To think escape is optional an opposition, a category of mental illness.

Worthiness based on ill merits, how many hearts collected, how many servants corrected, how many departments directed.

Coercion a crisis, a criteria for a bitten croissant. The beginning of the dictionary containing the letter (and word) a.

Apparently, be and bee are separated by beautiful.

Immense brown anoles running away from commotion, an invasion of iguanas in canals. Temperance found in Hole 14, quite the hike to the bridge with both ends blocked by planks exclaiming Keep Out, carts making it in half the time to their respective mansions quoted at prices worth keeping a secret. Back at Hole 15, pool splashes and chlorine.

Jumping over the fence to Western civilization, victimization a plus, a plug for police brutality, vitality a policy, pilot episodes going no further than their contemporaries. King Tut's god was no match for the Hebrew's, granted the desert became their dwelling

regardless of sacrifice. Owl hoots warning of the smell of composite trash, the trade of commodity for some water, the composure of riots, a composition in three-four, a play in five acts, the theatrics of Cats.

Breaking glass from a crack, a foul or a goal depending on the man.

No outlet after NE 191st St. An elderly lady and her dog contemplating food. Is poetry food?

Fishing below NE 14th Ave. Workers in hi-vis vests delivering a package from Amazon. No leaf unsupportive for toes with claws.

Beer and litter, For Sale en español, new thrift store on West Dixie.

The market must be doing well for itself this time of year, when the sun is at its highest, at the peak of its pyramid, the Sphinx ready to play with the ball of yarn promised for cooperation. The decimation of an entire race, the race to see what button is pushed first, the one in a briefcase or the one in our hearts.

I am no prince, I am no king, I am just a humble lowly man doing God’s bidding, burning the paperwork that must be signed below here.

The ruler of this land—Christ, the bodhisattva hunted per cycle by cash-crazy hedonists.

The rest of us—acting in cohorts, in crowded inns, this garage with its thoughtful suffering of being just a mirage like Paradise, servants turning the wheel so Ouroboros doesn’t get hungry again.

Trains running continuously around nothing, nothing but the desert pretending to be Lord, the latest talk of the century. Woe on the blight, souls hammering stone away, more handouts vetoed, less as more or less a gecko hunting a

snail’s dramatic entrance and exit.

The body of a federal prosecutor washed up on Hollywood beach today's report.

Holes closed up, gold silver diamond emerald pearls best left under the care of oysters.

42 U-turns before reaching the stars on US27, going north. State Road 84 East hotter today than it was yesterday.

Cigarette butts alongside freeways, daisies white and pink holding onto the grass as the whoosh of cars come and go. Ramp 869 E beside a lake, a picnic bench and yellow dragonflies each on their own blade of sawgrass.

The apple was thrown at me before with bites avoiding the stem. Under a tree, I said yes.

Winds going northwest, clouds going south east. The sun melting dry paint off the back of my guitar.

Yeehaw Junction another nine miles out.

Overcast cast by the hands of a tree, marks of light touching autumn leaves below. Wolves howling days away.

Jiminy Cricket telling another fable.

Locusts crashing onto windshields, wipers spreading omens.

Fairies worried about calories.

Another plague, another delirious solarium.

Another rest after the third bar, then the strum of winged beaked feathers before the crescendo of holus-bolus to the throne above thrones, hocus-pocus diminuendo by the minute hand, the hour hand dancing, automata in ferrous display; such are the years that walk through your garden, a library of difference, the beast awaiting beauty’s forgiveness.

Rolling dice, learning to count tulips, radiation as all the hype; your lips the petals of a rose.

He loves me, he loves me not.

O confection, O conflagration, niner triple zero, a quarter, a dime, a nickel and two pennies

is all you got, a stitched shadow of a centerpiece behind your wall, constellations & continents tattooed across your shoulders, blind eyes dragged by impoverished hands.

and the hanging of the sunflowers. for Ma And the gold glimmering in California waters.

Lots been told from men down under.

Hard to hold off the hunger of gathering sticks and stones, and thunder.

A hand conducting space, constructed slave as one homoerotic race, time raves us to save ourselves, before the bats arrive.

Shame belittling the air we breathe the same.

Yesterday was only a wave goodbye.

Standing after being told to sit, love to be had.

Scene change in the flap of a magazine. Hands held by the thread of a finger. Lands playing what has been doubly heard, bands of peaceful insight protested from balconies. & the hanging of a sunflower among leaves.

Recurring dreams blessing recorded realities.

Rewriting the ending after pending certainties.

And the bristling of wing flaps from the bees.

Burning another man's stash, dollar bills pretending to be friends, and over the hills a hut is alighting another hut. What wills a soul swallows another spits.

How children still avoid a discussion on parenting. Rather, they mold a den of pigs, picked with mouths, enjoyed banter a present, a rift, a verse spoken by god aloud, amour abound.

© Copyright 2018 Luis Eduardo Utrera Morales All Rights Reserved @leum__