Field Notes on the Living God

Jesus Grew Up + From Everlasting

from wilderness unto Gethsemane

from His 1^st Flood unto the victory on

the Cross which glorified, fully fulfilled

Isaiah 9, verse 6, His wandering

in Sinai fiery furnace fiery trial

unto the tears of blood among the blooms

among which He proceeded towards night's cross,

His victory overcoming cornerstone,

the cornerstone of best fit of all lines.

The God Man, Divine Human Jesus Christ,

addresses us in verses of best fit,

aims for the most regenerations,

(a maximum utilitarian approach

exactly in accordance with the love

of liberty) and blooms within us at

exactly when we can be kept in love,

a love that gradually gets purified.

A pure relational event transpires,

and following this brush with joyous dawn

you no more need the proof of which they speak

than need to prove your partner has a mind.

Regeneration sucks the poison from

our wounds, our wound up fantasising lusts

for anything, not just arousal in

the narrow sense, but anything at all.

It's Jesus who instructs how to love,

who flows into our stockpiled divine truths

as wine into a vessel, brightly shines

from Mt Paran, blooms-rises in the heart

the hunted hare has, gentleness upon

it, has it, cups it carefully, so much

more carefully than we cup ants (but great

by far than we above the ants, His love

sustaining us from plunging into Hell!).

Beyond our thoughts in secret passageways

outside of training forms like time and space,

belief becomes instruction in the art

of love instead of bitterness, first stir

of mutual love, the pearl of great price known

as charity, the charity on which

the law and prophets hang, the cuckoo clock

of prophecy, the passion play of fall

in charity in course of quarters, love

consociating us where we most belong.

He knows that many simply will not believe

so gives us many leaves for healing lands,

domesticates hereditary sin,

the tendencies thereto which we all have.

He does not need one's testimony but

our everlasting Father Jesus Christ,

that inexpressible and holy joy

who calibrated what is holiness

was clearly intertwined with all

conception and all creativity –

“without whom there is nothing done that's done” --

and outside ordinary time and space.

Joy taught one thereby how to overcome

past bitterness, establishing excuse

upon excuse for other people, how

to notice one's wound up severity.

This is not dogma! these are field notes here,

this happens as your partner happens, as

a migraine happens, as the radio

will bongo, as we drain a dram of dream.

These then are field notes on the living God

relational event dawn Jesus Christ

one can't express! such intricate and vast

expansive silent organ music! How

dawn helped one get up in the morning! How

His love instructed one in noticing

the other human beings, loving them

(1^st Thessalonians 4:9, I believe),

the mutual love of Jesus in our hearts

that swallows up the flood the dragon spews.

Our Father Jesus, Saviour of the World

He is the light and heat. We are the dust.

That image causing jealousy? Our lust.

He is the love and truth, the joyous sound

of bride and bridegroom wherewith we abound;

abound that is with mutuality

sincerity, with sown sodality,

oil/charity with everyone within.

Our Saviour from hereditary sin

is that same highway in the desert fools

can even travel as their lava cools.

He is the testing opportunity

to live forever and in unity.

He melts the biggest ice chips in our hearts.

Thereafter, even if by fits and starts,

the littler ice chips cannot bear His heat.

(His is the truth we drink, the good we eat);

these ice chips being lesser grudges, chips

on shoulders, feuds involving snarly quips,

and suchlike baggage in the cargo bay

which we resist such that it flees away,

attenuating to a shadow here

so that a true conjunction can cohere;

that is, conjunction with the God Man by

conjuncting good and truth with the Most High.

The Divine Human is Almighty Lord

and God and everlasting Father's Word;

and even people who don't know His name

can still conjunct, still play Love's hidden game.

For name is like to have a good name is;

so those who do His deeds are truly His;

not Nicolaitans, for a reward!

but even out of sight of one accord,

with all who live this way, conjuncting well

with Heaven as opposed to with some Hell.

Be not surprised that Jesus sometimes lets

the sand into your oyster shells and then,

(once we've become aware of law thus sin),

the rain temptation waterblasts your house

with vile insinuations like a mouse

or many mice perhaps, annoying as

a nagging voice some man or woman has.

It nags all night as accusation piles

on accusation, fantasising wiles

succeed each other, resist our control.

So far as we oppose them, so far whole,

so far abundant, liberated from

enslavement, beating to a different drum,

the mutual love of Heaven in our hearts.

This is the unity He makes of parts

and why we woke up in a ticking bomb

that starts out dancing, then falls in the tomb,

same belly Lazarus lay in 3 days.

This is life's meaning beyond all the haze

of battle, nags within and nags without,

the frenemies, the hypocrites, the shout

and bustle of metropoli, hired mobs'

two-way conduction and whatever robs

the people of their dearly purchased dough.

And those same people reap as they did sow.

We'd best sow good thoughts and good deeds or else!

The reprobate in fiery shadows dwells.

They share our heads to fructify our souls.

They hate us, even what we love, our goals.

Such is the flame of testing in our hearts,

becoming Moses: humble, skilled in arts

of the Egyptians, sure the Lord is light

that lights our bulbs, a truth that dispels pride,

and that gives envy no place to abide.

The pouring of the oil and wine from dawn(1) till eventide(3)

Your propium, your ego, fallen flesh,

yon heart of stone that nearly fills your jar

is doomed! unless the Saviour fills that jar

with holy living water from the New

Jerusalem out of a boundless sea

of oil and wine, like Zeno's paradox

flipped right-side up, perfecting without end,

infinitesimal Ezekiel's feet

no longer able to touch ground. But if

you dare to touch that oil and wine, you kill

two witnesses, you crucify two thieves,

which is the night, the feet of iron and clay,

which is the fourth phase pale horse, death and hell,

when voice of of bride and bridegroom sound no more.

Dead night is when the priest and Levite pass;

they pour not oil and wine into those wounds

inflicted on one robbed and left for dead.

Temptations Great Flood Swollen Jordan Fire

 We wake up in a body with a mind

a long time before learning to be kind,

infested by the tapeworms of the soul,

the ones whose present was a lump of coal

who spark up flames within you feed/enjoy

or don't, flames they enjoy and which destroy,

flames which destroyed them when they walked the Earth,

though in externals they displayed their worth.

We wake amid the shambling bodies here,

the waking personalities we near

with language and with action, knowing not

if in between their ears they are a bot

or not. So much depends on watching minds

for enemy behaviours of all kinds,

on seeing from more inwardly with love,

the charity of conscience from above.

The flood of infestations bridle men

who know not they've been taken for a spin.

The flood of evil thoughts whose wily wang

competeth not with joy; its oily tang

distinguished from our good thoughts, actions, goals.

Beneath Good's bridge lurk shadows, shambling trolls,

ships shipwrecked far from cozy hearths, firm shores.

No organ of our bodies, these are sores,

these piercing thoughts of deadened reprobates –

the nagging emphasis on one it hates --

known as intrusive thoughts to people now.

You're never quite alone behind your brow.

The thoughts of reprobates that flood your head,

perhaps distressed insomniac in bed,

perhaps amid torn turmoil of bright day

in shadowy recesses on the way

comprise the fiery trial which tempts your soul,

the great flood and what time the Jordan's swole,

the 40 days and nights of Jesus' fast,

the 40 years the Church of Sinai passed,

the Red Sea that destroyed all Pharaoh's host

through which the Israelites from coast to coast

proceeded like the house built on the rock

through fiery flood which purifies the flock.

They're gonna hang Confucius from the sour apple tree

Concerning CHAZ-cum-CHOP: Orange Man poopooed by Jenny

Durkan. Paris Commune. Late-stage Marxist-Leninism.

Thou shouldst not revile yon Orange Man, lest and anger haunt thee.

Thou shouldst not participate in a Two Minutes Hate, not any.

Parallel developments of dialectic ideologies.

Wars: Position? Motion? Late-stage Smithist-Financism

octopus of aggregation squid ink bubble pop, we're very busied!

War of Motion! Apparatchiks. Old Boy's Club. Both carbon

credits, Black Lives Matter intersectional convergence,

counterhegemonic. Trump poopooed by Governor Jay

Inslee. '...States Rights, Leninism sitting in a tree, k-

i-s-s-i-n-g...' Hyperinflationary debt

pop insurrectionary epic octopus-headache crescendo

shambles positive disintegration... 'will have order!'

Order in this fort! Calexit? Red Guards. Washorexit?

Red Guards pull Jeff Davis down... “We're gonna hang Jeff Davis

from the sour apple tree.” The mob has been unleashed, has

just pulled down slave trader Edward Colston's statue, dumped in Bristol

harbour. Neither “Classless” nor “Democracy” but one word,

oligarchy! Oligarchic interlocking, aggregation

paralleling other forms of global integration.

State of the Whole People, meet Democratism.

Sure, they're Marxist-Leninists, but you can always buy those

wholesale, much like mobs. A word on CHOP: Riddikulus. A

phrase on synthesis: Far Centre. Nourished must the genii be with fear.

Red Dawn done did it with Americans! Stunned stampede

mass hysteria coronovirus Great Depression.

Insurrectionary-foreign war: Novemberrevolution,

1918-19; Red October: 1917. Red Mafia.

“Red sky in morning, sailor's warning.” Red Guards pull down values.

Wen2hua4 Da4Ge2ming4 hua4... They're gonna hang Confucius from

the sour apple tree. They wanna pull down Washington,

they wanna pull down Jefferson. They wanna deconstruct all

hegemonic values. Red News, Education. Children

chanting, holding carbon credit signs up for their masters.

Children chanting as once college students did before them.
“Beat the Whites with the Red Wedge”. Red, white, and blue,

How do you do? These Hectic Twenties get to you, Red, white

and blue? You're looking sick Red, white and blue, you're writhing hun.

You 've got you a hyperinflationary insurrection,

hun. Talking 'bout you, Red, white and blue! My land, you gotta

pull yourself together hun! Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. White.

I wonder who is paying for the Marxists and the mobs

and what will happen to the people, people who lost jobs.

Mine eyes have seen professionals stampeding to the moon,

susceptible as buffalos to any passing tune.

Their willingness to come aboard those contact tracing apps

stands out to me as clearly now as squiggly lines on maps

amid the driving rapids churning, drilling them with dreaming. 
I know not whom but raise our flag at twilight's last gleaming.

Hel-lo, Tik-Tok

Industrial society: more bolt

of lightning than a plan; worn waves of Rust

Belt, not insidious conspiracy;

a torn, crushed, crumpled Red Bull can in mud,

a shopping cart abandoned by the road.

Not that some wave crests do not cackle now

& then, pent penthouse sociopathy

divided even as strewn street gangs are.

The robots walked into our city on

their soft robotic feet,

walked down our street -- last glimmering of an

explosion – on their soft robotic feet,

walked out of it, diminishing into

bright distance. Soon they are Tik-Tok again.

Bold busybodies crisscross neighbourhoods, these

faceless in proportion to surveillance.

Starlings murmur from the sky in abject shock.

Day-Star Rising

1. The New Church Writings hide no less than a rosetta stone
quinary frame of which -- precise alignment with the Word --
confers an answer key add-access code, much as our Lord
unlocked Nehushtan-Resurrection, this a thousandfold.
This eerie Earth is like an icy stream wherein the Lord
exposes humankind! We’re in a tadpole factory now. 
The proud prowl, so bewildered and obsessively in pain.
The envious, likewise tormented as a leaking boat,
must live this truth that sets them free to be led by the Lord:
that Jesus is our goodness and our status and our skill;
that saying less than this if well-aware is thievery!
That God respects not persons? Why, this same sword in us all.

2. The positive desire to serve the Lord & all mankind 
is Heaven; fear of punishment lives out prospective hell.
The observation of one’s thoughts in order to observe 
for flares of evil, be these wheresoever found, is God’s.
We do not steal ferraris, do not lop off heads; therefore
our trouble is within, from which proceed obsessive thoughts,
the same discoursed on by the Lord, which
are the bulk of human sin. You’d think they’d look inside, those
lovers of the Lord (who said the Kingdom was within)! 
You look within, you watch for evil thoughts and you confess
them to the Lord. Not that you cannot mention them to all,
didactically to indicate interiors for all.

3. For instance, one resented people for such trivial
transgressions as the soiling of a plastic bag. You tell
the Lord these things, you bring up anger management, you care
about this pressing taming of your animality,
this phase shift from Accusing Saul to the Excusing Paul
(if so be His regeneration dwelleth in your heart)
amid domestication, our resentment crucified,
as crucified as bitterness and foolishness and hate.
It’s these we crucify; it’s cruelty, a serrated tongue
we crucify. We need not crucify our joy of life, 
gift of the Lord, but evil thoughts and evil habits, lies
and greed and lust and doing good for gain. Hence “Watch and pray"!

Regeneration’s Second Work of Grace

Humiliating: it’s His talent. We’re 
no good, not in ourselves, motes in sunbeam.
The same sword pierces through us meme by meme.
as fate’s machinery, mates’ hates, near fear,

all grinding of sandpaper in our lives --
backbiting comments, flat tyres, nagging wives --
conspire to rob us of free, fragile peace
where it makes sense to quest for golden fleece.

We believe we live forever in the Word,
not out of it: the sword that pierces through,
the First and Second Comings' “...all things new”
"...is within you"! Now, comforted and spurred,

to speak of He who is our bitten tongue,
our tact, our managed temper, each good deed.
His way He works in us, so seldom sung,
fosters humanity in us indeed

who were brute beasts before His spirit lit
us, next explained flown evil thoughts as flood,
thus how led land lay. Pulled one from the pit,
He did: out of mire muck, out of the mud,

out of the Mariana Trench where one preened, prone
to absence of executive control
with callous arrogance, heart hard young stone,
a rutting chimpanzee's worth of lost soul.

…Love happened in one’s living room, vast joy
not an emotion but His living mind.
He really does love veering humankind.
He frees us to be far more than a toy.

Our liberation from obsessive thoughts is Jesus Christ

1.Miraculously actuarial,
the woes on Chorazin/Bethsaida paint
one category of true balances. 
False balances abhorred, Suleiman say.
True balances confirm one's foundling faith,
confirm consistency's miraculous 
expansion. Called miraculous because
of able absence on an inner plane
of outer contradiction sandtraps. Shoo!
Obsessive thought is flavoured alien.

2. You hardly need ouija boards 
to hear from the unkind undead. 
They have to work around the house
you see, the house one calls a head.

They are a hate track in your mind!
obsessive thought that is not you,
and just like you they were designed. 
A single human being is a crew –

“alone yet not alone” -- more than
it knows. For manimals are brutes,
within them beasties. Welcome in!
Welcome aboard to bearing fruits,

to doing good because it’s good
and not to get promoted, make 
a killing, wow the neighbourhood.
God is our good for goodness sake.

3. Obsessive thought-forms know how to induce
perversions of legitimate pursuits.
for instance turning love of solitude
(where also loved our Lord) into a curse
upon all sociality but roads,
encyclopediae, and similar. 
Our vaunted solitude is simply not
a thing! “[A]lone yet not alone”, God said
when incarnating in the nick of time.
We have no actual privacy at all. 

4. Do you resent this? Mind's eye: summon shape
of yon resentment. How does shape compare
with lust or hate? Our squirm of evil is
rebellion, as its wang in harvest field
or inbox indicates, a dark pinched flare
of evil, weevils in the hearts of hates.
Our tweezers wander like a lion to 
devour, (No one wields such gentle tongs
as God.) warily wander axial!
and spherical! and dazed! We are so cruel.

5. The architecture of obsessive thought
may be inverted to “excuse” and not 
“accuse” the neighbour whom we claim to love; 
that is, it may be turned against itself.
Regeneration hollows lions out
like jack o’ lanterns, grows a rabbit in
their hearts. Uniqueness of their washing does
not simply go away, well represents
domestication in the house of God.
The mental lion lies down with the Lamb.

Thou shalt not forget thy PPE

And “fire”, or how to make 
the flame-retardant raiment
came down from on high, 
consumed who would not
yet strap into their protective gear.
To wear a “Babylonish garment” 
piles on coal! and that is why 
who stoked the furnace died!
For “jealousy [doth] burn like fire”
and magnanimity is deadly to the dead. 

Octopus: The Necessary Model

Мне нужно модель мира с языками.

“...didst weaken the nations” -- Isaiah

Whither the White West? SIREN

Whither everybody? DOOF DOOF

Whither every ethnically homogeneous

land? O diasporisation! Welcome!

Welcome to our home phyletic tree!

Genetic politics of borders

represent with colour-blind

initiatives left, right, and blue,

and blooming of progressive algorithms,

and among us children holding signs up 

for their masters in the distance.

Looks like the coagulation of 

a tower breaks apart and then 

returns much larger, but one can’t

be sure among these sharp, shear, edgy edges,

marches, frontiers, fresh grounds, tentacles’

tangle. As with tower, so with

octopus, a microcosm & 

a model. “…part of iron &

part of clay…” (from book of Daniel)

Modelling as simultaneously &

penetratingly constructive strands

like kudzu by an interstate

on power pylons: Necessary

Model: simultaneous 

rotation of green tentacles

among known nations. Web-bots process Earth

like stratigraphic columns with word

base, like Jesus’ 7 flying eyes.

Brachiating in te Akeake, the Eternal Tree

In the beginning, Good said “Let there be enlightenment”.

Orange lichen grows on shingled roofs of Ōtautahi town.
FOG SIMILAR SIGN PET [ting] boils up Avon side, lip.
Orange lamps ripple on black water of the Ōtākaro.

Without omniscience, we cannot trust
our very selves, nor yet be truly just. 
Thus, “Let your eye be single that your body fill with light"… 
a voice exactly in the corner said, upon an height. 
It opens you up to possession, they hear-say
who said ‘He hath a de-vil’ way back in the day.
“Light of the World"! Light light! "Father of lights"!
Column of Flame that guides through desert nights!
the outmost Sun & inmost Son... one-pointed mind...
the reason WHY we're humankind.
Expansive, almost there! then falling

foreground here: One clamboured up from growing ground. 
One’s bookbag hung upon a broken branch,
FOG SIMILAR [to] SMOKE DIVIDE LIGHT HERE
swaying. Hold it, swivel, hang. Alert all 
sides night light mist lavender-grey orange white
BEAUTIFUL IT VERY QUIET STILL CALM 
gold. Why, any limb draped restful eases 
one’s primeval hang! Refractions softly of lined lamplights… 
egg-yolk blur-edged risen-hugely jack o' lantern Luna...
I LEARN ASL EGG FROM  <<SHAPE WATER>>
AND NZSL SIGN EGG VIC D BOOK

Something-must-be-done about this numbing fork! 
but all dendrition dreamt discomfort.
How one envies orange orangutans, cream 
gibbons! One would dwell in branches in
a proven prism warehouse, and glad glass
about it would enclose close orchard. One 
would swing from shelf to health, watch silvereyes
scarf fat! But I’m not covetous, more in it 
for the necessary model in the middle.

Ahasuerus! Ahaseurus sitteth on the throne.
OUR SOLAR SYSTEM NOT FAR FROM G-A-L-A-C-T-I-C CENTER NOW
A little numb in the extremities.
Detached from cold, accessing model Earth.
WORLD SITUATION NEED  FRESH OCTOPUS. 
The bourgeois/apparatchik* heads of institutes
& enterprises cannot comprehend
this pullulating mass of rhythms, braids
of trends, but do pretend to understand
uneasily, do ratchet up A.I.  “DO!” Necessity
of simultaneous and penetrating modelling, with base.
Then dreamt of rooms and faces that were not defined.

Next day: still silvereyes they welcomed one and willingly  
did sup with one above the kōwhai known as “Luigi’s” where 
cat can’t catch clutch; and stared at songthrush brown suspicious but I still don’t think he/she, afraid then: searching perching look.

PROCEED WITH OCTOPUS. So, bundling
in the form of symbols' vast swathes’ data
download… Take for instance body is to
soul as Babel Tower Babylon the 
Great to Babylon within your heart, 
horse recognised for mount & yet “prepared
against the day of battle”, is to many
aggregative trends without the soul’s clay
envelope. Not the one without the other.

Suddenly we’re in a bucking bronc
mid mud mode muppets: what to do, how much, 
too much ado, sand storm: had habits such
as ignorance, sharp temper tantrums, pride,
depreciation, bragging, gossip, hate;
bile, bucking broncos’ brain brawn heartstring brand
ishings, not yet  transmuted in the fires
(Elisha’s oxen & the yoke thereof)
apokatastasis of all things with God, 
of ALL things! do you hear? in Heaven and on Earth:
Son! Shadrach, Meshach, & Abednego!
that “shirt of flame” and “a consuming fire”
beyond the sensate stream of Babylon
in Promised Landfall’s Milk-and-Honeyed Light.
I do.

*There are, after all, two sides of the economisation of man, hence singling out bourgeois and apparatchiks.

Notes: "perplexity of nations"

X is to x squared is to x cubed as 
WW1 to WW2 to WW
3 as League of Nations is to  U.N.
is to WorldGov’s a scenario much
in one’s crosshairs, like one’s gray hairs or one’s earlocks
or the physiology of sex as

necessarily relates to Soul. For
in our mount we’re different lamp, unwelcome. 
“As “a great door and effectual opened” up,
so many adversaries in one’s mount, 
about, a bit like sour bunting bones
and dizzy flies, and then there’s falling down

among skyscrapers,skies, stock market floors
a blinded horse to keep one busy bee 
below. Among the beelines for baloney 
we don’t juggle three but mesazoic,
power bills, balls, “dead men’s bones”, bots, bother,
faces, tones. We juggle 1 bajillion,

often without mercy; even though it’s
mass society & we should have compassion
on accelerating jugglers; much as 
we accelerate ourselves, expanding
universes twining in us. Great apes
desperately encumber crumbling twilight.

Sometimes 12 balls. Sometimes 47!
Oops it happens. Something blows the breaker.
Billionaire: a plausible deniability 
autonomous appurtenance, like North Korea.
Anymore, these proxies tangle like extension cords.
Word is, among dystopians: transmitters

broadcast model citizen John Jacob Everyman
to everybody! smart dust searchable: fantastic
paranoia! but remote-controlling roaches was
sufficient leaven. So we got the loaf we cooked up 
in the burning labyrinth, well done! As robots race
against our exoskeletons, we hedge our bets. We 

talk of blockchain, debt apocalypse, apocalypse in
general, & the physiology of sexual acts,
aware that a distractobot might well at any time
dilute communication with mere questionnaire. But one
digresses. Now, where was one? ‘Physiology of Sex,
Relation to Religiosity of Same’: some have 

a married face as though one flesh. One wonders if it’s wrong
for instance to take tissue samples, with consent of course.
Here, have a look. Just LOOK how similar those lovebirds look.
Perhaps one can just know it as a player throws a ball –
without equations – but would lose these iterated opportunities
to witness to fissiparous modernities of Him.

If 'Don Juan’ Then the Prussic acid (tetrameter)

Byron was right to be annoyed 
at Shelley’s choice of “Ariel”:
 which sank in seething sea. “How long
do you intend to be content”
his doppelgänger said to him
along the terrace, terrified him!
among centuries. Was given
“Skylark”! Shelley’s way of thanking
God was… (Well, “Life” didn’t “Triumph”.)
Nietzsche wrote <<The antiChrist>>
& then baa ztt! insane. The brain
may be a blasted fig tree or
an emperor grazing grass, a grim
end/interlude continuum. So,
if you have a speck of talent,
be afraid! Perhaps you won’t be
torn apart, Abdul Alhazred
in the marketplace, a horse of
course of course, a blasted weeping
or Nebuchadnezzar the King!

The Reality of the Oligarchs

The Hypostasis of the Oligarchs
is interlocking, like tectonic plates,
such as the mob’s deal with the FBI
in WW2, among our many streets
above us in concentric traceries:
Atlantis, City of the Locks & Rings.
The Hypostasis of the Oligarchs
binds its expression in antithesis --
ants clamoring for their inheritance
in the twilight, in the musk of night’s sight --
and elections are her hurricanes and 
between this foolishness the Parties part
their parts: the whole tamale’s shimmering
shebang. One cannot see the spider for 
the web; the failing eyes of proud men do
not see the garden for its hedgerows. For
our sight is failing in the labyrinth
in sight of crumbling castles at low tide. 
We’re crumbling at low tide together now
as bitterness gives way to enemies.
The Hypostasis of the Archons
is a mixing pot of paint; and in a 
petri dish it pullulates, beyond us
yonder, ineluctable. Five hundred
page encomiums to statecraft add up
to an iterative governance not taught
in civics courses; where one is not taught
about the Law of Conservation of the Ruled. 
The Hypostasis of the Oligarchs
is Apparatchiks, Fat Cats, Princelings, Cent Familles,
what have you. Very little, likely. Long 
before we dreamt of freedom at our desks,
before us, merciless & mad
it woke us where it wanted us; & we
were seldom able to insert an act
in edgewise. Freedom: cotton pickers hand
out happy meals to hands from minivans
emerging, urging on the powerful
like bathtub rings. “…the more they stay the same”
A bathtub ring is real! It has a heft of sorts.
But informed citizens are leprechauns,
and I am sick! of informed leprechauns.
And informed leprechauns are sick of me.