False Sense

the second floor facade

pushed out forward,

like a box some kid, anxious,
kicked from his
Hoovertown fortress

while silhouettes always in back
and tableaux move back in progression

Where does movement become inert?

and the subject become a lesson?

what grabs us
pulls us to push?
what forces us
to forward thrust?
what relieves us
to lend us to trust?

-a special realm
an ingrained belief relief-

“It was self-defense…,” he says, not quite sure if he cares that i don’t or do believe.

“Not what they say…,” voice trailing in and out like morphine.

“…It was self defense…”


“…I was a soldier in ‘Nam.”


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