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Tabula MundusWords pour down on the plain.
A scree of sonnet boulders
raked with pentameter
and fluid dynamics.
Bricks for Babylon these words.
Each an iridescent scripture jewel
by an austere abbot of necessity.
Shaped hadrons or centerless aggregates?
It is for you to decide -
whether the world has a voice,
or is just some hen with pebbles in her gizzard.
Whatever you think,
the words will still rain down.
like hail in a creek ditch
forming sentences by accident
chanting reluctant sentience
from thickets of memory.
They will keep coming
inexorable as lichen
spreading its marriage on the rock.
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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