Your voice echoes through the ages — as if from the depths of dry amphora.
Pushcarts and tumbrils full of the dregs of the failed american experiment.
A skim of cream and a puff of smoke are equal in the Inquisitor’s dream —
Spastic as a cobwebbed spindle and dry as a sheaf of faggots left in the sun of a deepening drought.
We move away from each other singed by wind-driven wildfires that ring ever closer.
Each minute hotter and drier, each second etiolating the sun.
The shining city on a hill was an ill-fated fata morgana.
This moment desiccated like the cicada’s abandoned husk.
What I’m Reading:
“What if I return to the open space, only to find that the body writes itself, pen on finger, bomb in hand? The universe doesn’t make any sense. Sometimes I find that beautiful and sometimes I find it horrible, but either way it owns me.”
— Carolyn Zaikowski / In A Dream, I Dance By Myself, And I Collapse