No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
The city that disappears in the fog. You can look down on it from here, where the bay meets the ocean; see the red tube running across the sky, into the vein of society, the dripping sun setting between the towers.
We are in a third world country that has been devastated by civil war. Its state is barely functional and beyond the capital there is societal chaos as well as signs of life renewing itself. Two contractors are assigned by a vaporous multinational to build a highway from the more developed north, where the capital is, to the entropic southland.
Instead of draped in yards of rented, slick Visqueen, we would arrive here naked, marching barefoot, each roll and fold of us with the exception perhaps of the tams with their exuberant dancing tassels and the brilliant plumage of hoods.
small town frenzied charade a story for every question lock your name inside when you whisper the verbs are guilty of the same flawed thinking thin dreams and a full moon
four wild dogs set upon her, two at the head, one at the side,one gripping the tail in its teeth,
If you only knew how
I wished I had your courage—
that ability to stand
stoically in the storm, un-
moved by the pounding rain,