45*21

as we race to the end
what is the end we race to
like children the street
our palms burn and itch
love lies bleeding
in a field
is what you see from a window seat
diving bell and lead boots
the deaf refuse the use
the sightless offer of themselves
I smell a hunger
a sense of elopement creeping up
around a center, a false center
around the dividing line, also false
false by perception
the orgone accumulator
knows not what time it is
but when a world gone mad
asks questions
of a world gone mad
taking sips from a bitter cup