Below the indigo sky and underneath jagged clouds,

above silent toads and silent crickets and

yellowing grass and withering leaves,

moonbeams replace streetlights.

Les Oiseaux sit on a sailor’s ship, their songs wavering

in a parched, waterless sea.

Fiery acidic snow falls, singing caribou’s hair.

A waterfall’s upward flow tumbles to the lava core, and guides

an angel ascending down to serve Satan.

After a clairvoyant crow caws three times, a snake’s fangs puncture

The dog’s paws,

passing its venom through His body.

He bleeds where He was not bitten.

Two halves of a broken heart contemplate each other;

one half is understood

while the other half eludes all.

Though a pencil is perpetually resharpening,

its length is dwindling down

until it is only an

eraser.

Polaroids fade, so the painting becomes

faint and

the book’s ink smudges and

the Bible’s pages loosen until they separate.

Scotch tape fixes a shattered mirror, and shards of

glass distort everyone’s vision.

Cows eat vegan beef, so chickens consume

powdered eggs, while some flying pigs fly around

and tell the world that

pork is delicious.

In his grave six feet below, Mr. Poe is cynically laughing at my

pathetic unpoetic

cry for help

and the grim future that will come.