no mean reward for labours,
i will have no other
as injury to one is an injury to all,
and work its own reward,
writing being a chore
that employs common language
aimed for streams to catch their flaked
golden worthless grains
of solstice sunlight
in okie silos, pipelined vestibules,
into our bodies and cars
on dates
we dine, and on our scars we brag,
missions never accomplished
until our head
drops in the royal bucket
understanding consultations of war
as a drama with consequence,
subjects being citizens,
otherwise known as bleeding heart
livingpoems
whose comprehension escapes me,
as winter sun flies
toward a slack dismissal of fracking
leaving denton
in a future with no water but bottled antipathy
laid off
2014
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