Personally, I don't recognize any of this shit

Leo cheer or Leo yell.

Collette march slowly.

Bruce beam me up.

I am hurt.

Evan is only kidding.

Meadowlark is blue.

Baretta is barred from giving flowers to the manifold.

Leave them alone.

The beautiful model has no hospital bed.

Just checking with bat-eating man-in-the-street.

This vector or that vector.

Each speaks for peace but death goes on anyway.

Whose bright idea was this?

This gassing or questioning of tables.

This grief that you give me when you pull me by the hair,

the hushedness accelerating with each new tear

or tear.

These flowers may know they're heading nowhere.

These whitened teeth may have their careless stones.

But I don't have the desire

to explain any of this shit in terms that

your number-crunched disdain wouldn't disdain.

And do not call me,

I may be on hold.

And do not look down on me,

I've grown taller from grasping at the weeds

or weeds.