23: News

Just coming to the gathering, they say to him,

remain soft as a lamb, sharp

as a fang: be an old boy, eat the sandwich,

have a barley drink with townsfolk. So natural.

Her hands rub print media into every life, slather it

on backs;

he speaks in

the great robed rhetoric.

Her tongue is the worst eraser. A blotting

mechanism, it moves across hungry spirits

twisting gaussian blur, masks, layers, edits.

The picture is worth

a thousand meetings because in it he smiled for the dead.

The dead crowd's faces and hands are Monet's: The Scream.

Everyone gets chirpy

in the hall, so

unlike the birds and peace of morning, so beyond Monet's brush,

so willing

to forego the brush for the pixel.

My mind is a television says the mic. Monet is nothing in here.

The scream is, my god, a laugh. I'm killing them.

Turn it up.

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22: Hear Tell

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24: Metis Eats