Or the lizards wrote it

Here we strode from Rand her backrooms to the yolk
of cells grown fat in the squalor of their privilege.
This poem will start where it ended, somewhere in Villa
de Mexico the house of wandering men lonely as everything
was in the day before imagination took hold swallowing.
The poor gulp, hunger was, in the here and now blowing up
of sixty million men upon sixty million men upon more.
Young boys see the scratch, their mistake for hunting grounds.
Here we strode from the footprinted loam we spat on
for good luck, believers us ever, and sought what
the aging of youngsters might gain them learning nothing
we couldn’t find in the back of our brains, silly organs them.

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~ by Jeremy on June 8, 2012.

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