the fusillade below my heart signaled a transformation that i hadn’t planned visions of blood fodder fingers crushing the innocence of flowers all for goodness sake further down the tunnels men bent in half praying to their shrink meanwhile ticker sounds of acreage burning does Herod have a bodyguard and the soup kitchen has run out of toe tags can we breath the breeze of ancient orange one last time before the refugees of peace become the next on your waiting list of morally inclined to do whatever to fit into the culture of the day