When winter winds have withered stubble,
Mother Mary maddens me,
whispering words of wonder:
what are we?
I find the farm a fraction futile,
loving life in Larame:
take the truck to Tucson, Tina
or Tracy, Tennessee.
Aardvarks are mere armadillos,
such as subtle souls can see:
pecans suck for plumping pillows:
chambermaids are chowder-free.
Santa Clara’s not a state,
a splurge is not a spree:
Grindr Graham isn’t straight:
Superior ain’t no sea.
The whisper from the dreamer contemplated schemes,
Shadows of vengeance was corrupt and hallow,
Slither with a flicking tongue to prolong all suffering,
Sky now scorched black with no chance of tomorrow,
Chambermaids hushed the courtyard entities,
Breastplates of gold cracked for the beast will follow,
The orchards run dry with blood red churning seas,
Humanity collapse as the crumpling lands are swallowed.
God had come beckoning to take the few from the reckoning.
The men on horses turned on eachother,
Jumping from spires was daughters and mothers,
The serpent drinks from the springs of another,
Plagues of the dead begin rising from covers,
Harpies sing as the air thickens and smothers,
This is the price of turning on our fellow brothers.
(2017)