The Tragic Death of My Quail:
Hey...

Why is the exact never attained,
yet ceaselessly sought...

Hand and guitar,
concave and convex...

The supermarket,
though filled with goods...

All things interpret all other things—
each refracting the rest...

Lo—
they crusade to crucify...

Religions are the shadows
cast by the candle of Truth...

All speech is made
to vanish...

I am not looking for happiness.
Happiness is looking for me...

We are Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot,
the “Waiting for the Anti-Christ” deluxe...

Justice
is the human ability...

Forests in suits,
trees dressed in metal...