The stationary stationery of [d]reams

When agenda, for me

Is a problem of stature – not

Statue but stature, not

Patients but patience – 

Is when I can only 

See this thing they had done

As bloody rank tool to cover up 

So complete

Those tracks in the dirt

Of their minds: awful planned

And stationed – like reams! –

Of unmoved documentors 

Of crimes

Bad committed, by those who never

Would care for anything

But their skins.

And so now I love the idea

Of touching a new woman’s self:

Of reaching out 

From behind the shelf

I once sure considered myself sat upon.

No longer the case:

For future I have.

A big second chance to escape



Of mad family I had, 

And never bargained to suffer.

A family real mad, not gentle mad like me:

A family quite capable of any goddamn lie

Broad as bad grin,

That grin of horrid hire.

And then the railing of iron:

The northern bilge of done-in.

Those are the agendas I hate – more 

Than the sins of the fathers



Unreeled and unspooled, 

Out of violence

And fear.

All that text I say now:

That stationary stationery of [d]reams.


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