[b]malevich dreams of taking his own life in upstate new york[/b]
or maybe i talk casually of a
church brought down by an earthquake
until the bodies of children are
pulled from the ruins
maybe i grow tired of
the endless white space between
obvious truths and firm beliefs
of the lack of money that has
come to define my life
and what attracts us to words written on paper
of course
is the fact that they can be burned
we all claim a god’s eye of our own
and we all let the starving starve
we let pollock wade through broken glass
as long as he promises to bleed
because a person gets what he deserves
and i remember saying this about my father
two weeks before his death but
forget the reason why
i wanted to feel guilt but
everything is lost so easily
behind these grey sheets of rain
this begins to
sound like the sad
fucking excuse that it is
