What I want to say is this...(although I'm not sure what I'm TRYING to say...but I know...I'm kinda saying something....)

an outstretched hand is enveloped in white latex, made in a factory far from here made in a factory as poor as here made in a factory with dirt floors and milk crates that the workers sit on or sprawl on their hunches like prehistoric man or animals or mananimals its hard to tell made in a place far from here like here and where is Michael Foucault when we need him? mass thoughts and insights into knowledge and punishment centuries ago the limbs of men were torn off attached to a rope attached to a horse ripping away their flesh and bones cnn continues their reports in Kabul continues their reports for guantanamo bay continues the news reel clips and flashes of bruised limbs and solitary confinement their eyes emerging with hate and dark and dampness staring into the eye of the camera and span across TVs into our living rooms for a look for looks for insights to send back home and where is Karl Popper when we need him? where are the refutations and confrontations and the uninhibited world wide knowledge that nothing changes and all is the same and history repeats itself right down to the weather cloud and cloudless skies across the world as mao tse tong wakes up to his morning saucer of water and green tea leaves where is Che Guevara when we need him? the endnote speaks of a change of shape or a repetition of the epistemological root of all words regarding weather of all words connecting the fiber of every time span in the world together and going back and I wander the streets of new york who once wandered the streets of east vancouver who once wrote words of east vancouver now will only go back to east vancouver and in going back there is much missing the weather reports don’t have shit in east vancouver who’s only weather is one of rain whose only season is one of rain who’s only memory for those who leave is the memory of coming back backpack filled with reports and insights into the past that should progress into the future but nothing about going back all the texts, the rhythm, the broadcasts are brought back and reformatted to fit into a time frame far from today far from this side of the world. Where’s Jorge Luis Borges when we need him? the reports have shit on east vancouver the reports speak nothing of the reputation of east vancouver full of whores and crack pipes falling into ditches to be carried downstream into the english bay away from today from the eventual rain that always falls there are no weather reports on the blow job given against lampposts on west hastings. Where is Walter Benjamin when we need him? and his arcades of mechanical reproduction when we need him? reports and insights and historical accuracies mechanically reproduced and forgotten as quickly as the weather from day to day dew drop to dew drop there are no weather reports on the poverty the escapes promised with the hope of a brighter day the greatest minds of my generation are locked inside non-reports of weatherless skies no weather reports explain going back no one remembers going back they only ever remember needing to return with expectations and explorations insinuations no one remembers the weather of the place they leave but they always always always remember the weather on the day they go back...