O citizen,
press your ear to the fresh paved road
to hear how close the coming herd of gleaming chrome
has now approached.
They will be hungry when they arrive.
O citizen, to be alive upon the road
that splits the knowing fields of cultivated wheat
from the gods of chaos flinging by
toward bread & bluelight,
is to be divided, o citizen,
in half. For even I, the Self and Voice,
cannot decide which world to condemn
as one world ralleys forth with flags of righteousness
to pull like blankets out over the
breathing parts of the other.
O citizen, here is a bare spot,
come quickly and place your ear
here, as well. Learn the song of breath
before we decide otherwise.
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