Clouds in the dusty stratosphere form the circumference,
above us a sky the color of Cobalt-60
and a star beginning the asymptotic phase.
We float in a cracked bowl of uranium glass,
the rim carved in the shape of San Andreas at his crucifixion,
desert wind blowing his untidy beard,
jagged, wrinkled face burnt and hardened by collisions of nuclei.
I tumble the shards in my hand, wiping away the sand
from this shattered visage, attempting to burn the letter X into my palm.
An igneous obelisk rises in remembrance of lives not lost,
a published excuse, the Jinn of the Arabs released from his hydrocarbon vessel,
auguring lethargy to be measured on the Richter Scale.
Gypsum seems to develop a language of its own under these conditions,
a quantum suicide note scrawled in Enochian script across unknown tracks,
which extend for miles to no end.
Now we are all sons of bitches.
Alamogordo, New Mexico, 2011
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