Somehow the feelings of an individual for an individual transmute into their feelings on the world. Or vice versa. Sometimes we come to love what we condemn. Can only love it after we have condemned it. This poem is the result of such a feeling. It is a response to MOUNTAIN Poem which is somewhere in the archive. That is an apocalypse poem, a cry against a blasted earth. Now I find that I love that world...not that that changes what it is?


that love

struck itself

with a stone


the time of toxic wonders

simpleton travelers

circling the stone,

left out

for Behemoth,

to clean,

a sweep

motion devolves onto their heads,

overpowering everything,

the perpetual

MacGuffin of our chatter

through which, at times,

breaks this heavy fucking


serious stink

over the mountain

and it cleaned them out,

the louts didn’t know a thing

or if they did didn’t say, see.

that is, this

is all poetry criticism


the point

being, doom

saying contains an elegy,


backwards rush


regardless of context

transforms the objects of prophesy,

rendering Gomorrah fit for judgment on different scales,

and simultaneously, the rush,

being intuitive,

is enough,

known or not,

as the paradox must go

love to the stricken place

love to the stricken place

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