Day Four.
In the afternoon of our unknowing, we were outside.
So were other organisms.
Flies, dust, punctuation.
It's impossible to know how to live.
Woke up paralyzed, depressed.
Wrote little during World War 1.
Claude McKay, Jamaican songs and dialect.
In letters, Rosa writes my gold.
The workers strike.
The tsar's kids had diamonds sewn into their clothes.
My lichen figure has orange skin.
She breaks things down in thickets near the walls.
Sunburst form with even oranger ears.
Living bravely when the air is bad.
Yes, of course, yes.
Walmart doing violence to the poor
who work and shop at Walmart.
How now, brown cow.
They cannot live.
Dream baby.
Crowds were in the streets again in groups.
We had a brief window to join in.
Black and Brown and White students.
Middle income a few, whatever that means.
In our case teachers with jobs.
No rich people were in the streets.
No angry Lloyd Blankfein from Goldman Sachs in the streets
after poor people lose housing.
How can he even look at himself in a window.
Who have they cried out.
Now, in the oaks nearby secret life is growing.
Life forms.
Santo Mendoza growing real gold radar years.
A simile grows like the skin of a soul
as if it were safe to grow outside and live.