To see or not to see that is the
festering wound. A hole in the shape
of a query, a hook-mark, a question
bleeding in the sieve that once held
my curiosity in a blast furnace, my feet
in the cooling tower, my head aloft atop
a grain elevator. Your palm-gripped
rodent, your leash on your tigerless
emotion, rubs the entry to my none too too
solid inner hollow. Pipes and tubes of
question marks forged from iron
and coal, chromium steel, now echo
from a disposable transistor radio
resisting nothing in the revolution of
your pockets in the evolution of the
dissolution of your mind into 0s and
1s. They inserted Billy Joel in my mind
and handed me this computer. I complied.
What did you do? Who? You. I mean
you, specifically, not any other you. You.
And me. You too, we. We are the world
simply reduced by a many-faced network of
electrons to ensure our coefficient equals
zero, to stab inward our nothingness, dry
ocean, snapping fish, without questions.
Kenneth dear why did you forget the frequency?
The dude abides, but the motherfuckers
abound. Same time same batchannel.
The penetrating words, the technology
of bleeding lacerations, the mastication
requested for the sentences scattered in a
pool of letters on the floor. Plugged-in and
ancient, penetrant, penetrant. Click.
It has been said before, of this I am sure.

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