Tuesday, June 07, 2016

a kerchief of pogroms yowls

"Did you not imagine that the thin earth on which you trod did not not have another earth under it?" --Fourth Mansions

When the twister hit.

     "Sonnets to Chango: VIII."

In this malarkey uncanonical gospel
only the signs & portents were deceitful.
Wrecked hulks on the way, pick sacred torment
out of the coruscating joker vampire
lineup. We had fasted for a month
in preparation for our solstice chutney
& found the disorder of our polity sacred
the air we had awaits Extinction the Eighth
i only hope our lives pace our last rouble
gray yielding to blue a frozen kumquat
hovers, mid-remembrance, no great salvage;
days as starkly patterned as a zebra
yield nothing on the radar, staticky topaz
& yet i know i still must run the gauntlet.



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