The bars of morning are refracted in the
Obsidian eye of the grasshopper
He leaks ominously
A prophet born in the mud
His small stature does not impede
Vertical lift from crunching toes
In my plastic state
He moves slowly
Though trapped in a
Silver web, I am not drained
Though I am not fed
I grow insane
I, bastion of madness
I, husk of digested love
A visage in cottonwood
A plastic Madonna on the freeway
Tumbling in the cackling light
Inhaling glory of his whitest night
11 August 2009
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