The stars were a calamity that shook in my ribs, glittering fool’s gold in Pandora’s breast, the milk of mothers spilling into the universe like a slit vein My voice was a lunar eclipse in the shadow of an empire; a wheel to Apollo’s chariot eight spokes like eight pillars, a mill churning the waters. But in the froth I saw the clouds hand-whipped into shapes, and I saw fog descending like blindfolds; I saw Everest shivering. I saw apologies like corpses - trees felled to cup handwriting like stillborns - necessary casualties in war. I read that apology like a love letter, as if words could build bridges, but the view out of my window is still bare Apollo peers in without blinking, and I burn
8-7-20 magic pen marking exploding the air over-simple mass-market sweetened for easier consumption-to-the-point of excess and beyond so hopeful for the future mired trite cliche holding back the real person inside showing only inanity insanity maniacal mania smiling at the process the surprise in creation immune to understanding or even the expression of any message
