Yes, it’s only poetry. Poetry is an only child. I know the text is too small. Stop reminding me. Obviously, i have failed at dealing with the Homo sapiens again. What I want to know is when does it all end. Where are all the naked old men with long white beards grinding down the lot of us in wheat fields soaked in protons from the sun in suns. Going rogue locked naked in stockades where puritans are peeking out the window. Will have their way with throwing rocks. It cannot be undone. Too many people know. Memories are stored in underground canyons where AI rules with a cruel and intransigent fetish. It’s easily jacked off in front of everyone. I always know exactly when the time arrives snow is windblown from the snarling mountains. In that punishment cycle of tension and relief, and it looks like it’s time to get out of Dodge before morning would put your tongue in my mouth.  A pox upon their houses.