The clouds squirmed sickeningly in unvoiced protest. The fumes looked unhealthy, contrived, special effect smoke from machines hidden inside the clogged bowels of countless chimneys. I poked the clouds with a dithering finger and there was rain. The unclothed children who hadn't seen water since they were manufactured laughed and played in the black rain until they died of pneumonia...

Itan allowed the growing crowd to suck him in. Each crease on his forehead, each dust-layered pore, each gray follicle of hair stored a memory of things seen that cannot be un-seen, lives lived that cannot be un-lived…He was a vast depository of memory, like the sea-held fish that eyes would never see; like the shore-harbored sand that could not be numbered…He was the rain touching leaves and skin in the most secret of places… He was the transporter, the physical wheels of intangible culture, the custodian of stories...

I shove you hard
out without the blistered arms
that once sheltered your limbless night
from the invading eyes of open skies
Rusty nail in the frothy manufactory
of stainless pins...

Unsound rhapsody

Primordial feet waddling at the watery edge

of the unrecorded end of the beginning

Tomorrow’s child in an unexpected playground

nurturing a once-upon-a-time-mind…