This is such a lonely trac.
On either side, acid
The gloomy load, the phosphorous dangles across the balconies of flamed skies
As locusts grind the dust to something less than human,
the shape of the sky is the heart valve scissored and splayed across things that you know, things, that you know, that you know, that you know, that you know.
I know you.
Bone face surprised with rogue. I know you.
The angles walk under the ice where pockets of air desperately hold on.
We are holding on, America.
The doctors and the reporters are designed by the same tree.
I spoke to my elderly so and so.
We bought doggy snacks in the case to keep that dang dog alive.
We are alive.
The spirit looms over the mask-edge where danger meets daring, where twilight flickers across moving corpses delivering the songs of their people.
“We are all gonna die”
“They’re all lying to us, there’s nothing going on.”
The virus is the light.
That’s the thing, as I sat down to drag deeply on my comfort/relief- smoke-filled debris cluttering my computer screen as I tapped and tapped and tapped like my words were the full force and fury of the all in that same song…..
How many times, should it pass, that singularity stretched across weeks and months, will voice to voice meet in solidarity with remember that time……
Time spread across routines in soft cells, like warm water dripping on piles of salt.
Time crunched in bone, slathered in blood, like acetylene flattening a spike of ice.
That light though…the virus is the light.
Kiss me, kiss me all. Hug me. Warm me in your shared aerosols. After all, you only live once, and it’s a yolo way, the way of the yolo land from wence weze all comes from…..
The land of yolo with a light in its lungs……the virus is a light.
We are holding on, though, America.
Life’s bone and blood is not too close to most. The wolves, today, are not at your door,
But they’ve got the scent and it’s only a matter of time.
Or so they say, the they now losing the bank, the sweet cocoons of no worries
devoured by the first wave of locusts.
There are plagues and there are plagues and there are plagues, from the plagues, come the plagues, come the plagues.
Plague America, in the virus light, too soon come from the land of yolo where, you discovered, you weren’t that committed to the yolo after all. Shelled up and punching your fist in the pillow because you cannot even gather to mourn.
But in the morning, in the light, the first new tells us the stories of the engines and machines, the levers and dials, the dialers, the levelers, the designers, the controllers, the editors, the machina deus assumed but not found……
And we don’t like what we see, do you?
Trades and machinations in the corpse of the few.
The entangling into the useful for the few, within the cgi makeup of the illusion of the certainty of daily yolo. Daily.
We need that daily, son, cuz we can’t experience indifference and lulz to the suffering or the sublime enough.
And now machines with mouths and candy drawers in law chambers spit the songs of their people, which are not our people, the people of the land, the people outside the divine halls of the engineers and their enforcers.
I tip my fedora to the new ladies of this ruthless tribe, because yolo, but then light…..
The virus is a light.
How did your house find itself before the light? At war? At peace?
The light will destroy the pretense of the cgi makeup.
The naked face, unstitched and uninjected, collapses in its own bed of bone, exposed as the virus itself.
The virus, my friends, is a light, and we will destroy the light, but not unsee what the light has shown.
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