(no subject)

The wish to push is not itself a push.
A knowledge when it's gained you lose all others.
And take your seat in what's just slower rain.
You feel a crackle somewhere in your cushion.
A happy magazine for troubled mothers.
You muster half a crackle of disdain.

We rain into the plain somewhere in Kansas.
Unwrecked, eject, a crowdborn crowd push fans us
Through rectangle tangles blue and grey
And nightblack where the shines push night away.
Men's room. Hate your face till all are gone.
Walk the angles till you come upon
Brushed steel pick-a-card-fan baggage claim.
Spiral up the circle into aim.