The skirts of a running monk stir up some leaves.
On the way here I saw the dead crossing the bridges; they sing things, praises mostly, obscenities to the picketers and to the reporters. This morning's story: we chased the policeman and beat him, tore out his notes on our misdemeanours, chanting – burn the law books only. Before the vortex that crushed us into submission we understood the subtlety of the vision, the seemingly endless complexity often stripped itself of all illusion, standing naked before the awe inspired seeker. Then, evidently, the search would lead us to the rotting docks of the crystal city. And now our eyes won't stop wondering over her body. Compassion is now nothing but the chicken a family eats at feast, greasy fingers tearing out the flesh. Everyone has become a sitcom character, their bibles a filmscript that seems to make sense. The implicits are the bits that make them giggle, all the romance well rehearsed. The dispossessed drill peepholes in lower parts of the fence. On the other side there are generals arguing about weapons; we listen to them, weeping.
The women are being groomed as geisha for the angels again. The ploughshares shaped as tanks.