In this place
The air is so dry that water sulks.
The sky is a viscous brown mosaic.
The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.
A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation.
Words on a man’s tongue sound
like rhythmic coughing.
At the only stoplight
the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”
Strangers recoil from me
as if from an embarrassing stain.
People stream to the town square
for some indecipherable ritual.
Probably a funeral for the sun
or a snake oil sale.
Welcome to humankind’s true garden.
Not paradise but a place of desolation,
and what comes after is not exile but striving
and getting the hell out.
So long, mom and dad.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 10:37 PM UTC
In this place
The air is so dry that water sulks.
The sky is a viscous brown mosaic.
The sulfurous fumes of old suffering linger.
A woman stares as if trying to unsee creation.
Words on a man’s tongue sound
like rhythmic coughing.
At the only stoplight
the crosswalk sign flashes “Don’t waltz.”
Strangers recoil from me
as if from an embarrassing stain.
People stream to the town square
for some indecipherable ritual.
Probably a funeral for the sun
or a snake oil sale.
Welcome to humankind’s true garden.
Not paradise but a place of desolation,
and what comes after is not exile but striving
and getting the hell out.
So long, mom and dad.
