Rain kept me in watching bougainvilleas.
Tap water’s ice cold, not as chillin’ as cold
elsewhere. We’re finished, with what?
Bare mood sunning in one’s own bastion.
Poem drowns old beliefs. I’d watched them gasp.
Cheap as you’d say. They’re dirt, beliefs,
mounds of them. The rain, unstoppable!
Truths lie as extraordinary as grass.
I’d been rock solid, haven’t I, as someone
who’d served out of the system so you’d
believe, believe and believe all that stored
ammunition like gold within hummocky love.
I’d just read a very thoughtful essay by a student from Trumpland. I get it. Last evening I’d watched a documentary about Trumpland. Down to Ku Klux Klan beliefs about white supremacy, it’s about beliefs isn’t it? I believe therefore I am. Everyone’s beliefs are differently shaped by their geography and circumstance. At the end of the day it’s all about survival isn’t it? Like the…
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