My name isn’t terrestrial colorist with hunter sunglasses. He’s
the playwright here, retreating to circuit theater, a bore, finding 
backwater exchange wears him down with more 
blind faith. Lumpenproletariat floating pronounced.. Meeting up, he
and I stand on gorged terrain, a red square
on a lemon ground. Red = still on hold.

Then what if manna fell? Think 
if our rich friends pull thru. 
That’ll be the day to show up, bring a guest! 
We’ll code this orange. Hold on.