maybe it was a premonition, or realizing it was another dumb show believer recasting the next emanation battlefield broadcast repeating their own regrets, marching endlessly onward, repeating, there is no end in sight,

a picture of something burning for a very long time appeared, perhaps never ends, taken into an idiom that never ends and for a considerable stretch of time, never ends

longing for fishing line hope, I awaken in the night with pieces of lakes pieced together to form piles of scrap metal getaway’s from the detached limbs dangling amongst the wreckage, amongst piles of an incomplete everyone

our collective feet are caught in an under toe, in a gesture of an earth quake swallowing us whole, in a sweat shop production from dawn to dusk

in a flabby orbit around mobile determinism that offers immortal salvation for case managed addiction at the cost of self control, phantom limbs are belittled to nubs, something more than degradation, less than animal more rock.

we count down, surrender to another official version of truth, defeated by grammar, regulated to an instrument of function and kiss the blue lips of death.