this moment desiccated

Etiolated (redux)

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

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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