I dream about a chess board that bleeds
when all its pieces move across it.
I listen for the plastic wrappers collapsing
in the palms of people’s self conscious fists
as they try to cover up what they have done.
I don’t know what we’re hiding from,
but the corners of our eyes have been
hijacked by all that we have stowed away.
Another dead in jail today with answers left
not given to the patient crane like remnants of the dead.
I take the layout of these streets and I ignore it
looking past all the design and fancy dressing
over structures that intimidate the desperate.
I want nonstop rain until the pain is paid like
the monthly interest payments that the world
loves to inflict upon the undeserving left so far behind.
The unrestricted human mind is the same thing
as a fire spread for miles. It makes a glorious
show on the horizon, but leaves behind a scar
that marks the planet like a scythe could reap
whole sections of the world.
We watch television more than each other
and so when people slip through the cracks
we are surprised when they appear up on the screen.
I think Thoreau’s ghost is still out there at Walden
cutting firewood with a hatchet even though
he can no longer feel the cold, and in the hearth
of that old cabin there is still a fire kept alive
and well contained within the secrets of all sleep.

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