Digging graves for angels
we tear sinew, revert to hissing
wolf carcass impaled on the steeple
blood trickling down to the message
If lucky it’s a glimpse endangered
compass and lion
sketching lies
into the margins
of the Red Calendar
prenatal modes
in the Key of death
hemorrhagic tempos pulsate yawning
We break bread in the spirit of Geronimo
sweatshop astronauts fucking leather reef pits with titanium limbs
black lights and Bluetooth in the mosque
faded pastel walls roasting in sunlight
Chinese soldiers in the cabin cancel the creator myth…
reputations disintegrate into prison myths and orange moons
setting sail for musky antiquity in the shadow of pelagic suicide, or how the homeless dream in close quarters