Room for You at the Bottom of the Bay (redux)

The A plane by way of A. Johnson, brought down by ritual and lack of victuals. Deadeth on arrival: thorny ocotillos and twenty minute count downs. Tomorrow I’ll learn about writing what you don’t know—what throws you. Where have you been all these haggard years? My tears in time are tin stripes running down the length of your inebriate life. You left me unsure of myself and strident and missing the glyphs of my youth. You perish-wither— periscopes down—the Monitor and Merrimack your bedmates at the bottom of the bay. Bring back the ironclads by way of Iron Beer, or at least pass me a Materva because it is tomacal.

What I’m Reading:

… every expansionist power needs a good story to justify its plunder.

— Ta-Nehisi Coates / The Message