Twisting, turning, writhing, screaming, little eyes on end of stalks wilting, mucousy slime dripping, "God, can you hear me God?" . . .But nobody hears the frantic screams of those cook house porclains, bent hook twirling under the sun, string tied rigid to some crucifixion wood, warm sand scooped to bury alive . . . Nobody hears, and nobody cares . . .