Telephones and typewriters
adorn the ancient caves

The Horrors drive up
in shining trucks
Wearing happy hats
Playing dark violins

This is
an eleven word
sneeze
summoned
to splinter
my gloom

Rescued again
by a compassionate Doom
disguised as a bird

In the holy name
of science
feed me bloody shards
of mountains

Save a bite
of your cheeseburger
for a hungry messiah

The Moon
has plans
Big plans
Bad plans

(We were
faithless)

Lemon pie
with a dash
of Dow Jones
mirrors the progress
that’s been made
for the canny

On my back
in a greasy T-shirt
I honk the horn
of abridged desire

The morning
makes no promise
to the sleeper