President says, Wyse man says, they all say but I try to listen
failing, of course
Why we stop and breathe and reminisce and meditate, absorb heat and zen and blues and greens.
But my life operates as a sort of mass reproduced signature of
currents that have been rippling since Little Boy started to cry.
I am a product of production, and an image of that which I wish would shrivel and shadow the corner.
(then why haven’t I stopped it?)
The buzzes alert me, and my world is complete.
