You Hackensack Station
You tiny ****** quiet *****
How dare you keep such a weak atmosphere on my youth
You don't deserve me
You need some blood of life, ****
**** of my dirtiest saddest static lucidities
You do indeed though, my Hackensack Station,
Have these clenchers
Clenching for every little bad moment of life
And inhabiting your innards
Sadly the other "respectable" ****
Just lock their tongues, eat their vision
Static and cold and minute ****
Hackensack station dares to breathe
The breath exits it's miserable doors
Oozing with everything but character
However only to sigh, and sigh on the inside
About a woman's wrinkly *** bills
We the breath, have migrated from the quiet hell
To the eerily similar bus life
Only there... we move, we motion, finish a journey previously doubted
With white noise, and white noise that at first was not white

ruling planets cut thru

the screen of midday's midnight--

juggernauts with blowing foghorns.

super-schizoid percolations of color...

the earth herself posing as a spinning

sitter, whose turns are fed to the

paralytic lucidities of turns that will be.

yet there's no turning to be had, when she

hatches.

the screen suddenly seals--midnight's

midday...& thru the screen's holes

serpentine wavicles enter the potentia

of billions of breathers.