Finally some news as Palo Santo: the son still surfing
The flatworld, figuring his annual costs sunk in such
Fallacies, the constant doubt and pull, that nag
To resemble those to be resembling, those sitting and
Struggling to walk, those cats weeping over what
Has always been the same ocean. Glass is no liquid
Right? Never no break to wondering who can provide
A life desired, never a discouragement to be found
In our little literature of exhaustion. But imagine
Every time you look out the window asking, why stay here?
How no hubris of ownership? As they try to convince you
Of your charm no longer, you stay shocked by the calm
Of your father’s eyes, their demand on your unread
Images, on whatever swords you are able to draw.

Thus the rule of ones becomes a rule of just several
Ones in the forever expanding haunts of amino acids
And proteins. And if a raise today cannot preclude
Such a mild “lacrimal event,” it is because they think
Coming back will never happen, that that is precluded
By the word antique, by what he has ever said to you.
And maybe it is, or maybe you believe singing
Is this the right time / Or should I wait for it
Will provide for a decent course to the border.

They know you find peace only in the pine, that war
Has become boring, that we must talk of a stoic violence
As what the country needs, even what we need. So
Many words to make you cringe, the same with them but
Not the same words. How to make a transformative exit?
How to stay brave against all the insensitivity, so brave
With your talkpay and privilege, especially so brave
Speaking out against that same privilege? It’s the old
Absurdity of bonds, of a well-crafted bubble existence
In a city where they do not speak of community and
You are not really part of the story. That’s how.



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