They of the long death.
Those bringing the death carpet.
The sulfur people.
They are the strange ones.
Ash and bone and polished shards
Woven in fabric.
They wear their beliefs
Like the gathers of their lands
Taken from the earth.
Chanting they swing. Their
Noxious censors billowing.
Staining the skies black.
Stagnant as Latin,
Sattva Casetti was dead.
Eighty-four and smoke.
The chugging machine
Her birthday or near.
Fulfilling of prophecy
Ending the Red Death.
In ash and fragrant spices
That burn and consume.
Smokes that rise and fade
Lifting the spirit, the dead
Giving safe passage.
Were lit, it would curl out in a ripping
Unevenly achieved moksha forth from.
And even broadly the universe would
As the dog that stands in a hill of ants.
Sparks, smoke, scraggly brush. The chugging machine.
Jokes at work without getting fired for
Black and red ripped ends. Smoke it as if it
Were angry fire that ants unblinkingly
Allow. Homemade sausage native of weeds
Punctuated by work as numb plants that
Swarm up my leg stinging me around pine,
Oak, and sweetgum giving way to red fields.
But when sparks and ash spewed thump-thump-thump from,
Brahman was the sound sparks and ash don’t say.
It was too harsh. Books banished, weeded, and
Smoke escaped one’s free words. Sad strands of smoke
Rose from the diffuse cherry. And the smoke sucked
Fields of weeds. A big bunch of these bad boys
Swept their own ink. They had smoked it like weed
Out the end of bad taste. The color of
Your teeth after you smoke twelve packs of Cools.
He was sure the weeds had needed a cut.
From early wood fire, and plants. Wet clay hills were
Suspended. The peels were hard to keep lit
When they held planes as fat as forest fires.
Gang violence replaced mineralized Mitch
For us. The bright color of fire ants tell
Dirty dotted chunks of information.
I was losing track of the conversation.
Pliny the Younger and I were quick
To rip down the flier
Before it was his turn again.
Flames full of over the top action.
If you want the flame to run, paper burns faster.
Tommy lit a match and dabbed the story,
The commandment, and turned it in his fingers.
Daughter pictures thought they had
Set trees up in the way but instead
Arranged them on the floor where they were
Made into a possibility of the other side.