dcxlvi.
At a stand
still. What the
public wants and

what it gets:
the fountain at
the heart at

one remove. One
more cup of
coffee before I

go. Sped up
and shot down
town. 'What if

victim and perpetrator
were one?' The
coming thunderstorm the

size of the
end of the
world. An over-fancy

version of the
facts.

dcxlv.
We look there;
they look some-
where further: that

is how the
loop works: more
bombs, tanks and

keychains. "Accept a
personal salvation and
rid the compost

heap of slugs."
The totem king
of not enough

to eat.

dcxliv.
Easy and un-
feasible. What the
parlor saw, the

pantry. Rose the
flag, saw the
seeds, found the

lost files, the
mixed messages. What
the next one

wants.

dcxliii.
Far from where
things actual happen,
cushioned in a

country, buried in
a cushion. What
the people say

to systems, what
the system says
to people. Does

anyone invest in
peace, in all
seriousness? Does peace?

The motor thrums.

dcxlii.
A painful rhythm
to and fro
means nothing if

not transmitted. Not
transmuted. Not muted
or still audible

to everyone. Anger
released by beating
up customers. Dozens

versus hundreds. Open
field.