[note: this norman finklestein]
its shatter reverberating before my ears
he's pulling levers
widening views
and i think
i think it's like staring at a jackson pollock
with his flicks and drips of words
actions over message
then i realize
that it's nothing like a painting
he's straining the chicken soup of his reality backwards
dismembering his discontent
feeding himself to his ghosts as they speak through his own mouth
lips curling back and teeth bared around a smooth accent
there i am
there we are
enchanted
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