I scribble about Jackson, anger at Jackson, flaying once again, wearing the groove deeper into my cortex, going over and over and telling the ways of the intimately known landscape of fury and deceit.
All the maze of ruins in which I wander and strike and if I know the exit and if I see it I sometimes pass by ignoring it until I have had my say and exercised my rage.
Because what I say is right and true, but no one cares.
I am not so different; I would like ease, too, but not at any price.
Life is not easy.