Forefathers are written, transistors used,
I am born, you are born,
then the cigarette runs off in someone,
milk spoils, antennas call like vernal silt,
and the hour is lifted, shown to be a mass
of cancerous seconds, or the janitor
and his pail, the senator
and his mailbox, the tired speaker
and his mouth, the food
and machinery.

Build a house, wash the hands;
a neighbor comes over late to spatter,
holding celebrity disc of Gruff and Diva
dating for the gold pig, of late showing
on more monitors than people.

Random liveliness is had
and its actions seem true, yet rented.

You become an incredible series of minutes.

Ray Succre