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From among rampikes where I study ancient things,
I think I could reach up with my ponderosa arms and
pull down all the gods. I could bring them
here to earth, but people would only know them as
Know them in that same way that the
general population will always know
beauty and brilliance.
I’m society, some things are outside of it;
and gazes are always turned to those things
like the barrel of a gun. Scoffs are shot from
perfect, lipstick painted mouths like bullets.
But to be perfect is to have never burned.
Things that have not endured burning cannot
give light. And in the absence of light,
no one ever sees anything.
What I’m saying is, each person can set themselves afire in some way and endure –
can be stars speckled against darkness.
To be or not to be is a question of suicide,
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