Poem 11
Dream of Destruction #11
We somehow knew the electric orange volcanic ooze of hot lava was bound to bury us all, little spurts of ashpopping early like pre-cum and not innocuous at all blasted into the sky like a warning siren on the horizon.The air felt different. The sky felt different. You felt different.Still, there I was down in the valley where I was born, coyoteson the ridges of the Mayacamas, turning over the steamy earthto plant a garden. You were standing on the steps, staringout at the sky's ominous openings, a mouth of terrible red,like a tongue that'd been bitten so often it was not a tongue,but a bloody wound with which the earth tried to speak. I heldthat black rake in my hand like a weapon. I was going to rakeuntil that goddamn lava came and killed us, I was goingto rake and rake and rake, feverishly and mean, until the fertiledirt knew I was willing to die trying.
We somehow knew the electric orange volcanic ooze of hot lava was bound to bury us all, little spurts of ashpopping early like pre-cum and not innocuous at all blasted into the sky like a warning siren on the horizon.The air felt different. The sky felt different. You felt different.Still, there I was down in the valley where I was born, coyoteson the ridges of the Mayacamas, turning over the steamy earthto plant a garden. You were standing on the steps, staringout at the sky's ominous openings, a mouth of terrible red,like a tongue that'd been bitten so often it was not a tongue,but a bloody wound with which the earth tried to speak. I heldthat black rake in my hand like a weapon. I was going to rakeuntil that goddamn lava came and killed us, I was goingto rake and rake and rake, feverishly and mean, until the fertiledirt knew I was willing to die trying.
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