i sharpened my heart like a stone-age blade on a dead tree's petrified trunk
my axe-head heart, obsidian, shone
like the hate in the eyes of a late eighties punk
or the neon gleam of patent leather in the late-night.

this is politics. all is politics.
grey breath. the sentence, death, begets the thought:
why did i come here? why don't i go away?

these are our hopes and feelings:
takeaways.