2004-12-11 - 12:35 p.m.
the wound in the world is the wound in me
skies marvelous cloud skies falter with reason,
carelessly, with the swagger of mythic death we gallavant across continents light our cigarettes on burning cities and adorn our cufflinks with militant villages, wear guns like flowers, flowers like guns
dismissing the desire to kill as innate; in our videogamemachines electricity- our shadow as well,
we make death
a desirous symphony, desirous of the virtuosos hand as language still awaits a first true reading
in computers or out
a golden lens eye focuses from electrons
or some say
and we bomb them or give them senate seats cigars and hookers
