machinery finds the assault team. people are lonely.
distinctions begin to mesh.with an arrival at a logical realm of understanding, to cover up the potholes. people are tired.
the streets have politically-charged shadows filling the edges of sight, and people wander. there is no hope, in the classic sense, just the day after tomorrow.
there are ways into the stream, vigourous rush and calculated. the people have heard enough.
a word always exists, frozen in a spell, laughing out loud at human interest. there are people who lose.
being lost is natural, gambling all with nothing. people strike their courses and figure in the margins.
there are no helpless people, only tools.
the days are short, the sense is mystifying. willful onslaught hasn’t a beggar’s chance. people are endless.
the days are endless, till the end of time. the people are angry. their political groping finds a choice. dinner may be ready, the days are so long.
nights are long, the wailing sharp and natural. people are endless and alone.
people have gathered the cabbage, walked sadly in the forest, swum in warmish waters. people carry their assertions and their disavowals handily and forever. the people have said enough.