You tell me, These are dreams and I know that you are right
and I know that you are wrong. In them, I see great holocausts.
If bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, how much then is the worth
of great fires seen only in the palm? Visions of the damned as they rush
fast through the streets, trying hard to outfox, an old bitch that will not die.

War is war is war.

All day I have been turning back the fine-lined hands of strangers –
Why a click, some party trick! Quick and she’ll tell for you your future!
Tell him what he wants to hear someone whispers; sage advice indeed.
And I do. And I do, and soon, I know I could have him on his knees too
But such pettiness this when I see the such things?
What use a kiss, if a kiss it is Goodbye and not Hello.
What lullaby do we sing now, mommy; what then our medicine?
Each hand is threaded, a commonality, quick-stitch,
a mad-man’s revenge as he takes it, as he takes it ~ again and again and again.