Loosely run goats the wild yet there are no words to rhyme
to complement or roll into a taco.
One plate a a time we break our plans
free of those silver-clad bohemians.
Here the clouds circle but
We are the vortex.
It was only law that made the lawless and it was
very nice but then it was the other looking in.
Some felt we lacked the wow of
more extreme ways to hunger.
And so we quit them all.
No, we are not done.
Turn on the light on all the things we made.
All the things we made are broken.
The indecipherable language of crowds below us
floating, staring a hole
in the sky.
It's not the loudest thing in my head
your voice it's
Hymn of tempering
12 hours ago