False Sense

the second floor facade

pushed out forward,

like a box some kid, anxious,
kicked from his
Hoovertown fortress

while silhouettes always in back
and tableaux move back in progression

Where does movement become inert?

and the subject become a lesson?

what grabs us
pulls us to push?
what forces us
to forward thrust?
what relieves us
to lend us to trust?

-a special realm
an ingrained belief relief-

"It was self-defense...," he says, not quite sure if he cares that i don't or do believe.

"Not what they say...," voice trailing in and out like morphine.

"...It was self defense..."

explains


"...I was a soldier in 'Nam."