there's a secret life to things, like Ricky said, that inspired slant of light that falls upon the page and burns Apollo's lines out of Atlas's lesser verbiage, the language of shadows,
Atheistic flowers are blooming Watered by the Bastille ink of Voltaire, by the copious tears of Galileo and Spinoza, by the blood of Marlowe, Thomas Aikenhead, and myriad other martyrs:
Children of the fertile mating of tool-bearing animale with metal female of the genetic with the robotic... we dwell on a planet that "God" wouldn't recognize, a brave and depraved new world
Friendship bridges the road of life carrying us over the river's strife breaking bread with swelling love for companion manna from skies above, from school-yard to bone-yard
(also addended to "methamphetamine haiku set") the vile dust of meth clogs me nasal to mental : toll of creation the world needs addicts like cynics and napalm bombs, but it's a rough road