Resting,
on couch pillows waiting for the branched history
lost
in mechanical caxtons. Specifically,
beginnings of civilizations
lower than the wet marble staring back at me with its monotonous
face.
Across from Einstein and WGC I'm sitting, on this stained
seat with its lint and
funny smell
is pages apart from the true history I'm waiting on.
The
one where this book with its wrinkled spine is burning and its spoken
into existence by Homer,
showing me the path to walk with closed eyes
and a open heart.
Revealing his arthritis hands and pointing to the outer bounds
of 1601 Maple Street. Some unspoken agreement
between him and Virgil made me play in Limbo,
the inferno that reduced
lies by Dante
to ash. Ash, ash, crumbling and
Strawberry ice cream I've longed for while
my lips
dried out and cut down
by my Green Blistex which betrayed me.
Betrayed
the true history of the world through its 3 clicks:
back then,
here, and what's happening.
Wondering if my oratorical skill will
stand the test of
spoken achievement (or history conceiving) when they
look back on
the living I've done and what they've done.
To the true
history they trying to get rid of.
In these three clicks.
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