Thursday, May 18, 2017


Socialist Realist American art of the highest
order makes me cry breaks my heart, rips an
old mend in two. I can't withstand the forces
any longer. The stitching does not hold.
I have a erstwhile friend who is a doctor,
at a trauma unit in Newark. Nigh shift is
the worst. Bullets to blisters to knife wounds
and death. All. He. Sees. He goes up in the
morning deader than when he arose.

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