How many sets of dusty books do we have to dust
Off to get at
The whole picture—all at once—
Large, perfect, far, as well as detailed, segmented, close

How much quiet is there to be measured
against the protestations of the shit-storm?
            Like, not to castrate them, dirty-apple cheeked
Angels, no—but can we discover exactly
How many hill-people die rock-unlifted by the
Human hand of the mainstream/media/society?

Why do I feel it is my duty to ‘discover’
                                    the ‘secrets’ of these ‘books’?

Here is the secret: this city situation
Abuts the extremes, so to see
The brokedown baglady pour water
On her stuffed-full-of-shit plastic bags,
--To wash them—
            Makes me feel very my my relative class
            As—well as what it is—
            Even my hair feels like class, as it swoops down my brow.

Indirectly, we’ve come to one of the major components
One of the basal ingredients underlying the foundation,
‘like unpressed pulp to the dusty books”—

Indifference. Indifference 
lies in these lines.

The writer thinks and writes about ‘the poor’ and about class all day,
But despite reaching chilling conclusions, does not move to challenge—
Only really wants to keep on getting stoned at night, and then life’s alright—
So? That’s how indifferent indifference is: even when I care I don’t
Do anything. It doesn’t bode well.

What does though, these days?

Inadvertently, we’ve come
To a basic factor in the personal calculus of ‘the writer’:

The connection/separation between ‘the world’
Created by their writing,

And the ‘larger’ outside/social world in which they live…

So? Well, ok. Just saying.
To write draws in and destroys the world.

Making ‘a world’ on paper. The paper world mirrors,
Mocks, cat-calls, questions the world ‘outside.

We are perilously close to a whirl-pool scenario
With this type of relationship. So many
Writers are drowned. They just don’t know.
Oh, they know. They know. They. Know.

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