The sin of endlessness made me stammer, hurry the felt tip like a chore, and perfect it-- cut it open like the forgiveness dialectic, sides that haven't met but get legible next to one another, (I don't but I did) majestic lambs with hot comb manners dangling from them like a purple hour, blandly roaming, hoping out of tune and sleep walking to Sizzler, delivering swift punishment to the hunger for the invention of buffets and majority, for the nation's way of glorifying uselessness and smooth adult contemporary radio stations, excess and casual Afros until Pharaoh can't go where he needs in himself. Now I'm speaking in marches and situations, in the ritual or cold shoulder to white guys with gold grills who wanted to lay their heads on my pillow in college, in the warm of a thousand yard stare held in the relay between the agreeable and the Chameleon Circuit, repeating it with a ripple grip until-- I just don't know, where there is to get to
