Kick The Crab

He had to ask himself the toughest questions dealing [on] survival or all else would be snuffed out. Morning. The new morning in a new age. As the time passed he realized he wasn’t a kid any more and that he has been by virtue of being compelled—growing and in growing inspiring others.

She slid a hand to his right knee and
bread was at the oven
inside thinking of a better life

The facts of life carry from bird to bee and can be found misconstrued on any feed.

Jerry’s teacher Mr. Wallace taught him writing and the significance of writing by hand, organic in early hours, an innocence sprawl biking baking reality the pages squares of paper towel rolls and untrusting stares people give.

Reminded how the shops and empires, nothing left of them but shadow stained imprints logos on the wall their own shameful graffiti sitting up the damage done and most of the people never wrote get well cards and we-miss-you nothings so sweet they never made it to reach hearing distance honeycombs hubs traffic flows signals.

She found her consciousness revived and lax, Evelyn, who acquired one daughter she paid for through her own old fashioned efforts, bees that whisper the same tellings all that comes and goes and language gets into everything or else we can’t even see.

The daughter she made out of construction paper and glued leaves to a page removed, learned how to speak by little nudges and then flew on her own. Boy did she know how to sass.

Somewhere mixed up in a silence a willing father came along again and that silence boiled low for years until oh the language and twists and turns that came out of him too- they would surely together pass along to a child something Volatile dysfunction

At this adjunct a collapsed lung early on left out in the sunlight trapped in a lot parked cracked windows he could not be moved from his chair so they scooted him in front of a TV theirs was an old folks home stylistically they eat their young beat them young protein fun and stuck brain chopped lamb chops for dinner. brains for dinner. Take this Hammer. Try for one more son.

kick the dead crab
reeewindddd
the crab is alive
the crab is your son you must
put through college for you to demand
that he makes you red face baked proud
like his back is rosy cheeked red
burnt in the sun not hiding under a tree
don’t kick the crab if you have no idea
and you are feeling rather dualistic
pluralistic disinitigrative
sans-shade Terra terribly as your maker
as your undoer
recycling happening with or without a program

the man leads us along in silence
with a Quicksilver logo painted
on his shirt
a red rock painted redder reddest
invested in the hopes of this world
entwined in knowing shakable phenomena

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