critics are far and wide:
white mold covers the null-and-voids,
spreading with the common will of disease
with blame that has no substance;
with minds loose from little experience:
mouths dribble freely of mother’s sour milk.
they hate you.
they hate your language.
they hate your pride.
they hate your capacity to eat shit with a smile.
THEY HATE YOUR ART.
they do not stand for art;
they just stand:
their knives are cheap.
their sheets bright with boredom.
and that which thrives without secure allocations inside the mass
will be shut out against the cold shoulder, because your facility
HAS GOT TO BE
but their fear is your shot in the dark.
your apple seed on the hard earth:
it is what happens when nothing else does.