The Landscape of Dis Is Not Dissimilar to Erie

There’s no divinity here, here, there,

or there.  Look around!  Everything!  Everything


decays, even the building your dying body is caged

in will crumble like a Mosque shot down with our


own drones.  Clones of demons coming as radio

fliers: they almost look like a child’s toy.  It is not even


in the place in between here and there that anything


divine reins.  God is just

an extension of oneself.  Unfortunately


stupidity rules the roost, as they say, so people

fractionate off into various fractal forms of inept


life. Trafficking for evil—also known as Money,

in the land of Modernity—from spiritual things, charting


their own circles leading them down the earth.  People erect

mausoleums to keep the end neat—shiny marble tidy

without dirt, outside debris, most of all no


worms, no maggots—the insects always find a way

in though.  The comedy: ultimate irony. There’s nothing


but tragedy because of voices being silenced by their own ignorant

shortcomings.  In order to live, one must learn civil coping


mechanisms.  Lacking the fortitude, I’m no angel, but others have said

as much.  If I am an angel it’s one of fallen grace


left guarding the walls of my city with fervent

fury—never letting anyone in.  That is unless,


of course, their exquisite heartache

matches that of mine.  The monumental


moment a foot steps forward, once

the walls have been blown away as broken


bits, the entire known world changes forever

to some far off place in Africa where the ground


underneath all feet is burning, no

girl is ever left to be innocent making her Mama’s heart


heavy and hollow with ashes on the forehead of love

passing on.  Burning always.  Burning.



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