Why shouldn’t I banish the pain from the eyes of my child
He’s not quite a buddist type, he’s more princely and if
He gets whiff of the sickness I worry he won’t sit calmly beneath these trees with me
But will… worry me… will upset the palace… will… worry… me…
What’s the value in knowing how bad things are, how bad things have been, how bad they are likely to get?
AGAIN!?
You want to point the eyes of the angry tyrant at the broken ones outside these walls
That suffer for our feasts, that die in the mud for our lies, that burn and skinned alive
we don’t worry about respecting the sacrifices of?
What gratitude is owed the past future present sense of not being enough alive?
What maddening glance would you give unto a cat upon your lap
belies, a fleeting sense, a promised land, a broken
fruit — the skin– the tree– My God— provides
and here I am deluded that what makes any sense to me means to you a word beyond
the fear, and fate, and restless ending, date, set, match, point – and so
The Haunted Typewriter 