Pure Potential

silence as it cancels itself out upon
heart beating neurological
shifts of energy, there

will always be windows
until we die

and they are registered
in the bits of display they vortex

our car

from and disperse
cloud-parts of its
disease across
an ancient

burial ground, one
made of mythical doorways, ones

of what everyone came to think
but never understood
as a real, breathing
architecture, with octopus
lungs and eyes of the deer-people

roaming forests of the ocean in the brains of steel and iron
heaving log,
thoughtless possibilities
at undermined
wooden boats

ejected from the sparse
but relevant villages of the mind, these

crawling on concrete
in search to break their starving need for company, not
even coffee cups will help

relieve calls of a fire engine, yet
regret runs in the skulls of these guilt ridden hunches, to
try to help a situation interdependent upon cars

in the garage and a good education, caste
isn’t always a mummy wrapped
museum presenting artifact of tasteful chocolate, no
guerrillas are people too, it’s

that zoos have built a category
in which these eyes must look through to pierce
a possibility of seeing through plastic
as it has

sandwiched over a face a movie of the sky and its
characters the lake and the trees, if

we could just break through the lens
with deductive reasoning and clear-seeing, perhaps
glimpse what our hands could actually do

the ones cupping scissors


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