Friday, July 24, 2009

terrain of profit

When doctors weep it pours There is a terrain of profit the machine operator never learns of until he is jerked around by armed police forces, with paramilitary swat a syllable away—and needs lawyer doctor, and finally sees the faces behind glass of the luxury suite of the new baseball stadium and groks he is outside to be rained on with the weather that stopped games before greed became so fierce a kid can't by a baseball hat for 30 bucks and the new stadium removed a roof. Baseball isn't football until accountants get a hold of it. Bitterness in America, the States of is kept in banks of the sidelines lest freedom is denied or now terror is invoked. The crumbling of sturdy bricks at Michigan and Trumball so a parking concession went in the pizza boy's mcdonald pockets, a wig wearer. Now the cheap seats are exposed to rainclouds as ziggarat reversed, the men who drove gm and families to ground sit in a living room, at ground level, and imagination makes them one of the guys, who never swung a bat. Bitterness