December 15, 2011



It was the renaissance wars

when the housetops started strolling by me

and the nets were filled with hundreds of

blind wasps and sickly bees.


And the water. It gobbled us up like

krill at the head of the whale,

surging in a futile display

of crack-breaking, spin snapping



Followed by the whole ingestion of

our little significant souls, which lather and

become rinsed in a windy extrapolation

like leaves torn from mothers' arms

and sent to the farthest depths of our escape.


And when the water came in,

blackly putrid, scentless apparition,

by the nameless execution we sent

you to and prayed by the death-ingesters

that they'd find peace for you.


As we lay upon melted rooftops

topped with moulded moss and

soft cactus branches, we whispered

chilled moony nights, ducking as the monster

made his rounds through our cobble-stoned

rubble-homed landscape

for we saw none else to consume

but he smelled us in our filth

all the same.


We prayed for the dead to come

excavate us from beneath this sandy

pit of sediment-ed cliff side,

and we prayed and prayed

until our bones remained

in fossilized holy constraint.


We dried in the sun,

we sank in the water,

and dissolved

but you wouldn't have it,

hollering hell and heaven

for the fortress sent angels,

who should grab our hands and

pull us clean of this sinking Atlantis,

and instead we flew, higher than we'd

ever seen; we were angels,

caught in the sick, hot hand of that dark

shadow creature, but we sang the same,

as he ate us up, like a greedy phagocyte.

And we sang and sang

as heaven threw us up and under

their tumultuous grasp,

we fell into the darkness.