Cyclic Renewals

 
The solar wind a damp rag wrung out in the darkness
the dregs at the bottom of your glass
the petri dish, your telescope
hubristic machinations

"It’s too late for the ball," she says, your Beatrice.  "Come along though, I’ll take you for a stroll
the skulls of dreamers for our cobblestone, the night for our wanton Shroud of Turin
no more wakeful than all those who have gone before
in Babel, in Punjab, the wastelands of southwestern Kurdistan, where it ends

"Aztec priests with green feather boas
high on cocaine, their observatory in the Sierra Madres
deformed like the skull of a prince in the days of Quetzalcoatl
and punctuated like Orion’s belt with ellipses, the kiss of death and futility

"Life coarse as the hemp on a gallows pole
the claim you’d stake on the Mountains of the Moon
or in the roused grapeshot heart of a soldier, conscript to fortune
plagued, become indifferent to the revolution, to the cycle of life and futility"

In the end, upon waking, to know only your dream and your thirst
to drain the glass, drink in the stars again and be
content, if only for a while, in striving always
never to be quenched, but always drunk — blind and staggering drunk

 

 

 

WC Roberts lives in a mobile home up on Bixby Hill, on land that was once the county dump. The only window looks out on a ragged scarecrow standing in a field of straw and dressed in WC’s own discarded clothes. WC dreams of the desert, of finally getting his first television set, and of ravens. Above all, he writes, and has had poems published in Strange Horizons, Apex, Space & Time Magazine, Shock Totem, Silver Blade, Liquid Imagination, Scifaikuest, Star*Line and others.

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