have you heard, did you hear of the dying breed? who listen in the riot living in perilous danger and feed the soul of humanity—while others kill and pound the fierceness from the marrow of the snow. and white flakes dry to their knuckles bleached proof of the curse several hundred Puritans would send down the sewers of descendant broods to then in violent climate changing double helix fornicate and beget and copulate the worst of them for walls of steel and burning oil blessed with the greed of toxic fumes rising nostrils of the least and lost whose septic brain cells would listen in the chambers of the dawning hour breathing carcinogens from the burning flowers. while in the mad house there was a girl beneath sheets who liked to trim the tips of her fingers with glass shards harvested from bottles vacated in the gutters of the streets, she told, and when she’d see shining iridescent cards of blood she’d mend the wounds of loveless boys along the red-light streets of her coven. it was pain and black blood that made her the most sane, she said, and gothic-headed laid her smokingly heavy whispers on the floor between hospital beds. eyes lined with dust, we could watch the lights ignite her lies spoken as truths she wished for, but it was us then blinded from the dawning hour, hidden among the trembling flowers. who lost their livers in holy times of the immortal stomach while grinding away at the spaces already full of treasure seas and bloody cloth, too scared to stop, too knackered to hear another day, another hour, a full expression of the flower. but who amble now in slow motion blessing each day, stopped with minds slackened by necessity, who simper whisper for each person who could still afford jealousy, and speculate at what became of the fungi of the hallowed tree, hearing undertones of urgency from the dawning sea. he crouched so low it was like a steam iron flattening the lengths of his uniform into grass torched ribbons crumbling through woody fingers. under olive skin vibrating earth was wet with his last spit before he’d stagnate in the body of a soldier rolling him like sands amorphous and swelling outward and away by torrents and flashes of sea and wrath. under the weight of rain foretelling he tore through the wet mud forward with pain as it drenches reality gripping the prismed tongue of sanity with silt rings. but never easing in midstream seeing a dead boy where he crawled in the green of We Own Your Life, Your Weapon, the gleam of insanity that drives, that leads him quiet never shrinking at the dawning hour present and breathing combat flower. who listen and who write in the mass confusion of a dying ethos wondering at the burning rains and bending to hide beyond their disillusion melting to the conformable masses with shame— to minimize to ostracize to victimize mutations. who wonder at the crimson call of isms unbent by the draw and glitter of the prisons when they take the dancing trickster from his hallowed whip to clear the streets of strangers who feared the Northern ship. the spider mother pounded her feet in the lorazepam of grief, needing to be the bride and not the widow long beholden to a traipsing and solemn hero of the era. she still wore robes of polyester majesty and bereft of liberty from the promise of prescriptions losing her position as the goddess of her kitchen: what did she have remaining to be sane and held to, needing the bower of the swings and the trees and the man who rose in each dawning hour to listen to the whispers of her trembling flowers. who would never glimmer, all dancing raw as a catatonic addict of the unleashed Combine. no, we do not hide ourselves our minds like a platter unearthly with more colors than America can harbor in its primary revival of arterial weaponry and bone shattering against the sectarians’ sharpest bit of stone. when they gave her a mask she held it to the glass and it hid her shadows and it made her speechless as she stared through the latchless windows to the white fuming clouds thinning the haze of burdened isolation of each day white smocks took their clipboards left the meds. the sky turned loose and weights burned above her cheekbones reduced to salting the pulled linen across the room a waltz resting in the base of a cup under shadow moons. the best things must be the lessons in dancing and might take an evening of trances to write of the plumbiferous town in the burning hour unearthly, cerebral confessing alchemical desire. who, lifting nothing inside them carried desperation on bloodless boned finger arms possessed by wasted and loveless skeletons crawling ants across spinal cord that had heard it said starvation couldn’t be cured and where they pelted your rotted highways parting enormous screams of [SEE ME SEE ME SEE ME HEAR THIS] you motherfuckers of the detrital male monarchy amassing salvation and bread as if it were your earning and not the plunder of flowers trembling in poverty. she peed in the protest bucket in the corner of a college dorm stricken by the nightmare of obsession dressed in green to go to the lie detector mill changing as any wind blew lake-bound. as she crouched over an anointed pot she held her prayers silently for the end to the monstrous aluminum burning wound cracking itself each morning over her yellow ochre skull without understanding of these greedy cowards, she was born loud in the guttural need to smell the trees, to see the dawn, to hear the speeches of the flowers. who listen in waiting rooms across cities for Her call in all the wrong spells, not outward, take inward and catch fast before He burns it smokes it and executes the willow and the embryo and the manifesto of the sacred, the witch who draws lines for the beans and feeds the grass that sharpens our dreams; who resist the kiss of the reminiscence to greater days where there was nothing to be had from the polonaise or the apron. who listen to the listening and unname the creature, untame the shamed and the framed to loosen our denial and tear the hair of distraction from the satisfaction of violence, who redact the venom of the pigs who leached from plastics the lassitudinous laze and frown at every father’s blessing of the maze. who do not think but think and feel and wonder at the telling of how to forget such unwieldy power who know themselves without his help his stethoscope his reasoning with pliers across strands of temporal lobe. who speak when they speak and smoke when they want unaided and carrying truths and watching the dawn with the eyes of the goddess knees unfolded and stained gracefully ungainly and wielding the weapon of their absolute rage in a bronze cascade of manumitted flowers who laugh with purely perfect sanity while they engulf your towers.