12.14.17

All throughout the frame
signs of the destruction
of our land, fissures
marking like jagged
cursive where the
subterranean tide rolled
through, battering
year after year
after year after
year, and out
in the pale blue
distance, brimming
the lower lip of the sky
are the scorched hills
that were two nights ago
in a conflagration
of such magnificence
I considered in a moment
of clarity as lucid as a
sex dream, that sixty-six
percent of the holy trinity
had unleashed its agitated
breath against us, a final
sigh toward annihilation,
the end of something
that had gone sour
ten thousand years ago,
before it ever had a chance
to bloom. But it was not
that and we’re still here.
It was just some asshole
in the dry brush, flicking
his cigarette away from
his mouth.

Written at 1:06 at night, in my office, in Agoura Hills CA.