the truth booth
not possessed prescient hardly mad
a visceral vision I had of the womb of the world
washed in deep yellow light floating in soft, sparse perpetual night
it’s warm, it’s foggy, it’s damp when it’s late
silent steam irons hump over platitude state over involuted furrows in the earth
over grooves clipped at birth they wrinkle and rhyme as earth silently grows
shrouding their innocence and hiding their burrows under mountains split by vehement fissure
slipping through rainforests urgently growing thicker, richer
marginal beauty beleaguers central command
crucible of limestone, sulphur and sand
dunes hotly apotheosize tidal waves in disguise
we drift
we rain
we realize
I love the vivid images and the beautiful language in this poem. Visceral. Crucible. Those are some of my favorite words.
Warning Comment
Burger King is using real chicken now? Oh wonder of wonders!
Warning Comment