in places where we dwell infinite, the time is everlasting in small quarts of sunshine and carbon dioxide.
we make our homes in green bottles that keep the wealth of our tears and our imagination in check.
i feel the winds of past ancestors who lived their lives in struggle and war.
the broken backs of my own children whose mother is the earth and could give no more and whose sun is the sun in three broken colors.
the colors of eyes that have seen the miracle and the tragedy.
the swollen eyes of puffy children that bask in the sunlight of their forgotten fathers, shamed into existence like a silly pun of persistence.
I am speaking of the dead beats and dead beats, the ones whose duty has to be upheld.