LOST PROPHETS IN
GEOGRAPHICAL TAILSPINS
I
raise my hand and cast fire
burning down transparent trees into stumps
cleansing the perimeter of lost prophets
random symbols clutched to their chests
lurching about eyes ozoning
blue filled with
slogans of vacant rapture installed into them by
optical internet feeds
a chorus of sirens floating above me in the sky
whispering faint songs of sadness
flashes of lightning shattering black clouds
outlining mathematical equations intended to solve
my eyeballs whipsnapping back and forth
infinite queues of memories trying in vain to
shoot the conemaugh gap
wrenching my neck backwards into a space where
the pain of lost love oscillates creating
irritating black line vertical rolls on a 1950
television set underneath my skin
bursting through like mexican
jalopena peppers on a hot
that seems to have lost it's way on Interstate 20
outside