Power Struggle

Try to take terror by her bizarre fingers,
her helping hands now being burned. No shining
shrubs here, not sweet-tea

gales to throw my pages to,
I throw them away like weak
ankles, weakest loop in the Shasta
chain when no one can

no longer pretend we are sane, resting
on the tracks of authority–Everything changes
when the last-call neon

flashes on: the miniature, immense, cracked, hostile,
the static witching hours wanting for flight
under unchained moon, void and voice.

 

 

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