Automatic Apocalype

Woke early this morning to view Apocalypse Dawn. Howard Dean was walking with Bertolt Brecht. As they were talking, forty horsemen drove by. The street was full of lightening. Strata clouds built the sky dome.

Morning Star signed a contract with the Burned Bush. We understood the terms imperfectly, but were happy with our toasters. We loved our new digital colors, and the stories they told us. We read our palms by fiery sword light.

In secret corridors magpies muttered. Horses held obedient conferences. Then snakes pledged allegiance to purgatory. The sky dome fractured sunlight, infinite magnifying glass on bureaucratic liturgy. Towers knelt before flowers. Sons knelt before dark mothers.

Ti Jean, will you hear me now that time has stopped? Henry Miller is practicing your blues harmonica. Walt Whitman is walking across your alternate America. The Rosenbergs are studying the Talmud of your Zen Constitution.

At last, the continent drifted. The perfect trial was over. We were shadows. Our homes were shadows. The cancer had been excised, and dwelt in the sun’s sweet furnace.