“HUMAN” is incongruous
with the opaque ziploc bag full of legos
that is every person. there’s too much
straining against the plastic membrain,
stretching circles into the film,
to be two syllable simple.
what i mean is, the body is
body and the spirit wants out, or
the world is just blocks
of disparate information
we struggle to contain, or
the human can only know themselves to be human
because we condemn the three dimensions
of our thoughts to something
so flat and contrived as writing,
rife with error, image, simplification —
it’s so much easier to kill
when you’re shooting at
an idea.

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