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moving towards zero

saturday afternoon and
the shadows of birds down these
chalkwhite streets

the taste of salt on naked skin
and the moon in a pale blue sky and
the age of pity upon us
without warning

the age of wars
that cannot be won

100,000 dead in the name of oil
and all of them buried
without reverence

and what about this woman
who writes to call me
a monster?

what she's never seen
are the faces of men who would
laugh while kicking the corpse
of a newborn child across
a windowless room

and think about pollock in
the fall of '55

drunk and belligerent
and totally lost

his hands useless

his mouth thick with ashes

imagine the day when you
finally look into
your mirror and understand

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