that you can meet it in the street everyday
among the piles of garbage by the florist
next to the homeless man that looks through them at night
and in the penthouse of a skyscraper of million dollars.
It's the concept that as you walk
among the myriad of men,
holds you back. Holds you back to look.
You look, and down there, down the woods,
down the frosty sidewalk, down the main road of town,
you meet with it face to face.
It's not that of an individual I celebrate
it's that of the trashy sluts and fake intellectuals both,
it's the repetitiveness, that you come by it on and on.
It's wider, greater than that. It will not die with the thunderstorm,
will not die with the earthquake in Japan, not die with guns,
not die at all even if two molecules of it evaporate in the air.