flight fight

170517

tabula rasa
beginning had always been white-slit
black-think, crevice here to please donate

dollars, perhaps drop sense, or identities free
to dark into an eternity
for uterus soils to raise once more. 

this ground has been stamped before. now
the laundry of flags is grasping its colour, elephant
slates wash their green. they are circumventing
the apocalypse of the eleven-floor
claw climb.

forgive us, father,
for we know not what we have
dug the ground and found, this whiteness
splayed by movement – this arcing motion over
heads; sometimes it is difficult to see.

a decade and we are still ejecting paper expecting
flight – how do you expect to fight the flames you
fan yourself? never less,
in heat we will still
cursive; conceive; conjure; 

we are the creators from creators. we hit the
marks left
to etch further 

the whitewash with black tint,
those kamikaze men,
nosedive, still standing.

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