I tore the page
I tore up the page
or personalities become dead
selves
your eyes are made of cash and
going broke—your money, money eyes—
eyes was I,
I was eye—
drill
baby drill
drill
baby drill
borrowed three days from August
dawn breaking earth breathing
the TV
says the TV:
farmers are farmers:
corporations eat them:
“clean coal”
ate
my face
Property is death: they had a body
crammed in a mailbox and it was just
a blue suit with bones sticking out:
I tore the page
I tore up the page