malevich dreams of taking his own life in upstate new york

or maybe i talk casually of a
church brought down by an earthquake
until the bodies of children are
pulled from the ruins

maybe i grow tired of
the endless white space between
obvious truths and firm beliefs

of the lack of money that has
come to define my life

and what attracts us to words written on paper
of course
is the fact that they can be burned

we all claim a god’s eye of our own
and we all let the starving starve

we let pollock wade through broken glass
as long as he promises to bleed
because a person gets what he deserves

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