Hands that touch the moon

Subliminal, critical, little missile, missing intuitively, passing engineering instinctively, while bigotry still lazily sits on the stoop of the head of the critical, minimal, subliminal, little mafia running the media, placing minimal subliminal bombs behind the curtains, certainly you see, but not really, because the tv has you a little bit hypnotized, devil in disguise, more like devil in front of your eyes, drinking rye while the moon sails in the sky, painting
pictures that blaze the mirrors, light an idea and set fire to an empire, the umpire plants dirty little subliminal seeds, while the catcher doesn't see, still asleep, broken bibles with dried ink stains, listen closely to the dead under the dirt and hear stories never heard, more like a bird whispering to the dog or the cat, mysteries painted only in the minds trapped in a casket with dirt and soil and a pen, ideas shatter into pieces and turn into a hen then turn into an egg, the watcher observes the moon, a mere substitute to the sun, the day repeats itself, same car, same road, makes me wonder if the settings change, does the car move or the road?