Skies, open your gaping mouths and scream!
We’re on board with the rain and maybe with the wind
but they can’t comprehend how the fields of wheat demonstrate life’s
suffering.
The corn sways and it’s obvious the oaks crashing into the
shore barrage their neighbors with hollers.
Rapturous the lakewater accepts them and rushes over with a cold
embrace.
Then the boats churn foamy, alabaster water against the boulders while
rock shards in the faraway city refract the sunlight and shove leeward
so that on this distant shore, our bodies become temples of velvety orange
memory.
Mirages amid rippling waves and the dune grass always swirls in the building,
incoherent wind. When the nights warm these souls of ours, we cannot help but to
rejuvenate the crevasses of our fingernails and the scales upon our elbows!
Now in the summer we baptize the red polyester in the sea and feel
the sugar of the soul collapse all around us in transparent, thin pudding.
The Sun Unbridles our joy—cascading silken daggers.
Our laughs and the chants of tomorrow echo long-edged along the cacophonous,
singing bluffs of sand.
Voices of today roar in anticipation and perhaps they croon a swansong to the
remote mirages of civilization. Even though there doesn’t seem to be much of that
here.
Foreboding arms stride long up and over the horizon; could they possibly
reach the maples?
Swimmers of the sea weave in tight, wet patterns… trails of figure 888
converge until the water can reconcile its incongruities
The arms stretch into the second half now, so
a seaside alarm blares red and horrific and “fuck you!”, it declares?
The cragged fragments stab their toes into the sand and into the pier and
they can only shatter and tear the joints apart, I guess you cannot fault a sentient
being for its nature. We remember seeing the mirage, but the arms’ hands reach for
our faces. Whether it’s there or not holds no significance.
In this late, warm evening we almost suffocate
until the cries of fire and glitter and crackling laughter propel skywardand the arms ignite, retreat, and burn into sizzling black ash. We respire; we
look to the horizon. Nothing lies there except the chilly pool of ink in the
horrific, ecstatic night.