The blush grows like a bloom, but it's not a bloom. The rise to the face only is a flag for the rest of the world to doubt. If we moved like we would never get old, then we would never get old. This country is orange-faced and confused by how much it hates the pole we keep promising to shove up it. Most of these things are as made up as the gods.

I've hollowed out my kitchen floor. If we need to hide the body it's ready. If we need to hide my neighbors from whatever new police is coming it's ready. If it looks like I'm not home, I am in the floor in the kitchen, working on some of my own anger. I'm always home. I'm always writing these poems. I have no interest in any other battles.

How many mouths did he think would stay open once he had nothing else to offer us?