I know I don’t exist to you.
I will hand you a poem
And you will hand it
To your secret service.
America is no longer safe
When your favorite like-mind politician
Cannot trust even you.
We cry the same tears.
Almost seen the same battles
Despite years and distance.
(It is this simple thought
I write to you far away
From what I am thinking.)
We don’t know our neighbors.
We don’t want to know them.
To know them may mean
You may have to report
Anything unkempt or unlike.
Yet I will extend my hand
The way a machine extends
The life of the already dead
It is the robotics of living
Each pulsepoint
Mercurial
As the lines of a graph
The downward lines
As if demise
Or rebirth