Of Plonk and Cruft

sometimes madness has to come out
a long turd extruded down the centerline
of a highway in the middle of nowhere
summoned by the rarefied air
the altitude of mountains
a blinding fog
at the edge of the world
you have pointed to its boundary
it would be time to turn away
but this is impossible

the heart of America
is toxic dead black oozing
down at the bottom
of the Gulf of Mexico
killing everything around it
dragging it back
to the center of the earth
tilt-a-whirls and an
elliptical Ferris Wheel
Because We Can

there is no story being told
a story only exists in the past
this is what is unfolding before you, now
not necessarily making any sense
just bleak and deterministic
a slow motion train wreck
and the more layers that separate you
from the appearance of what may have already occurred
the longer you are able to ignore what will become fate
until you too are its witness

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exploding gargoyles

First, an explosion of some kind.
The beginning of memory.
What came before?
Amnesia? Nothing?

Is life a bird
that will only be seen once?
maybe from the eye’s
quarter and so confused
with a shadow disappearing
momentarily in a dark branch
you still hear its call
but don’t know how to respond
hesitate perhaps a little too long
and then silence for a while
maybe you still hear it
can’t be that far…

In the end
like stones
in closer sync
with eternity
glacial,
evaporating,
if we make it
that far.
A change of state
that is irreversible.

Like Gorgonzola or New Jersey.