From the Annals of Clara’s on Sundays: The People vs Cromwell…
Watch, what the world would create when
weaned from their motherlands, bird-men and bird-women and bird-children,
fallen from their egg-rest to their melancholic moment of mortality, …
in the dark matter of the unknown.
In various nationalities how would you define heretic?
The conversation grows a silence thick,
Abrupt clash of Thor from ‘cotta to the sky.
Some take to shooting pigeons.
Judgment is public, surrounded by clones of Peter at the fate.
I find a golden-rod ruler broken by a boot print
and stomped into the lawn outside the gate. I ask Kafka if flies migrate?
Tackling a mob of injustice, weary with toil, I’m a king: checkmate.
April 19, 2015