I need no preamble to suffocate
This line
This matter of exposure across the defense
Of sorry stolen quarters
Where we live there is a presence
A 40-year-old lie that is a man
Tailored across the atmosphere
And into this poem
This sad equation
He sits, no I sit in an
Open space aberration
With tattered clothes
But no sense of exhaustion
In my war-weary exterior
I have lied to get to this
Point. I am sorry for every
Fable. I tried to tell the
Truth. I was never able.