rueful disaster, foreshadowed statues, apportioned applause, their sallow palms on some mentioning of cockeyed calemy, of top hat etiquette brandished by, still brandishing covered hands fit for the rain, smile son here comes the rain. hands birthed by the land, deep furrows, crested with human and earth--sweat and grime and so the chimera is born the laudable laughter pent within a collective gut--a union of holes. the holes unite. spite esoteric to the covered hands. the damn feeble structure. it is not envy it is a union of holes, sons and dauthers of hungry ghosts. i am the hunter's son.