well, gosh, I'm writing...

[permetaform]

"sing a song of blackbirds, baked in a pie..."

what is this, hah, true blue like blue in the face with breath like blood true blue white red me up read my red in the eye my sheep like the sleep of a guilty

first, do no harm

what are we, true, healer of world gone wise and too old hearth gone girdled 'round the world and we as child raising children come upon our fertility too early

we are fucked

what can we hold true to but our belief that we can do best like hope freedom liberty like a green angel like a delivery from Mother France whom, ah, we forced to eat the afterbirth of our borning, with the taste of a guillotine edge

suck my barrel

gun down the throat of world gone here thither yon all hands on the trigger happy to see me, or is that a BANG me up scotty and disassociate me into particles into nothing less than like an explosion you hear me boy?

welcome, my little death

truth like a spectrum, like a scepter, like a sepulchre, we lose ourselves by having aged enough, collectively, to see just. how. far. we don't

come close, says the dream

we make little girl named Equality be all grown up and see just how spread the divide is just how much her womb of opportunity has been scarred

sybil-like as not

multiple personalities east west south or name the seaboards and I'll describe to you the chessboard in play like machiavelli, and like grass

we stare up

at the pedestal that we've put ourselves on and wonder how we can be in two places at once America Land of the Free to be at once America Land of the cheated out at once America Land of the promises, made and kept and broken, my land, America

I weep for you

I've given you enough rope to hang me with well hung like power what kept me high and hanging on hope erotic like breathlessness and fearlessness and awkwardness of having to hold the strings of a world and

we like it

and we hate it and are hated sparkling bright magpie-like emotions, something to hold on in a space where anger and fear live uncomfortably in each other's lap, a space of burnt-out cores, radio actively loud hear His voice, and a land of rock and sand and too much prophesy

idealists are brutal

much more than cynics ever will be, charging with the weight of moral right and faith like a Crusade like revengejusticepride like a dark age descending and

we watch it

voyeuristic detached horror in epic proportions an ultimate reality show me what to do, grow like grass slow in proportion but listen

listen, you can sing.