by Thomas Piekarski
In all absence of pretense I do without any choice bemoan the dentI made in your metallic heart. Upon further review I relish that daywe spent opining on whether the sky was raw or boiled. Subsequentto the last adventure we had with Sir Francis Drake I once woke up to yesterday. Every second my digitized image is being transmitted across a transcontinental internet indelibly forged in the world order.Studying the sun I went blind but saw everything in one giant flash.Then those government hires fleeced my treasure chest of diamonds. I would plod about town shining shoes of homeless if I had any guts.The politicizing got to many of my neighbors so they hopped aboardskiffs and sailed for Polynesia, yet only to find themselves homesick.In utter disgrace the maid who lost her virginity to a god was banned.It wasn’t my fault they denied him entry at Port Identity, nor Hume’s.Maybe some day when the tide is high and oceans are made of bloodwe will know what red is. Some day we just may finally get the truth.