Bless God. And Will

Will

A coincidence one too many.
First came blood, that of same land.
Then was 1988, January twenty.
Twenty four were the months within your hand,
till powers came and took possibilities away.
You went on, as did I. Seasons buried. Months tripled.
Six years fifty hundred miles too far. You return to me yesterday.
You’re older now. Still, four days young. As I fumbled
to overcome five thousand miles too far,
you spoke of reuniting forty five hundred miles less.
Coffee waves of your hair threw me at war
against my fear to our six years of mess.
Yet this you knew, to draw an endless laughter out.
As I knew, eight years before, what we were about.

-Christine Lin



Bless God.

The sandstorms swarms around us,
a fascist collective city bus,
plays with the Liberator marionette puppet.
Great tree mountains, mountains higher than the highest courthouse
Of corn husks
the people speak in hushes
they're angry at the austerity and the removal of the buses.
They speak in whispers and seething cusses.
Let's not be too crass and now, we did go to the heavy metal rock show
hair metal.
Black rose petals, stained with red rose petals of bad faith.
The proletariat rise of the eyes logging towns and Athens Georgia will go mostly unnoticed.
For the most part collective eyes will be greatly disenfranchised, cast down into broken well holes.
In Eastern Europe the broken down and stained and crumbling churches, will have darkened dank bell tolls.
Just take a look at the newspaper polls, it is a good morning.
A mask of bad faith, and great existentialist mourning and self hate
A brand-new fascist Republic out of the puppet of the Shah.
The people look at the perfection through the fog and the gaslight with awe.
The Bear caused all the republics to tear.
Back in there to the 1980s,
Let's do some cocaine just like a decade ago.
Mindless corporate poetry, and break the reactor both rose
The great theatrical sexual urges, all from and thrown from the predecessor to the old blues name.
The face of the, new electronic Apple word processor tree frame.
Just sitting here and staring at this game that followed on Pitfall or Pong is rather on Monday Mundayne
Everyone will know the name,
of the great worker Soviet who hung his head in shame,
The Russian Federation, will be the new name,
There will be a new grand chessboard for a new game,
Out of the pus of imperialism will come a new name.
A good 30 years in the game will still be the same,
don't you think that DSL is rather lame, it reminds me of my old Apple word processor.
Slow and stoic clinical processes
they don't get smudged recesses.
Only smudged and black morose amaryllis funeral dresses, and a crumpled Eastern European church thrown into perpetual night.
Oh how this does help me since they invented the PlayStation, now I can destroy the data in an obfuscated rate, of the hidden urban guerrilla.
This is much like Attila
this computer operated drone strike,
ending the rates of Edmund Burke's nightmares of perpetual night.
At least for a short while.