

In Times of Great Evil
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In Times of Great Evil
We sit in times of great evil,
blinking,
trying something,
we cannot,
in times of great evil you cannot,
you have to learn how to breathe again,
with a different organ,
or how,
the suffocatingly thin air.
We sit in times of great evil,
moth-eaten tanning beds in hailstorms,
X-Box controllers on the ocean floor,
trash cans full of edible leftovers,
and we measure things,
how much we’ve become time itself,
how high the mud is,
who’s at fault,
and for what,
can we dream and how big,
while the hero
gets hit with frying pans
by self-exonerated black-belts
on his mortifying, life-or-death head.
We’re not any different,
just a different table,
and it’s not all that great a joy that we’ve at least
reached
this table
with our minds,
on the contrary


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