​A
top
Babel’s
spear-tip
a glossolalia
of locust wings
vibrate in galvanic
prayer. We witness
a gate of god of agate
open, pulsing thru callused
heels. Femurs brightly ossified
wish to fly. We shuttle our loins
like temple steeples acting no better
than cell towers spiraling
heavenward
waiting
for

Ping!

a
signal
a sound
a message
from Venus’
broken mirrors
orbiting sad lights.
Saturn whets his ring
(or is it Marduk's collar?)
for the time of soul harvest.
His house has many manchains
of comfortable authority to adorn
our stiff
necks
as
we
listen
to heaven’s
silence cinching
our throats that stretch
like pyramid peaks at sunrest.

Ping!

What is the sky but a sarcophagus?
a tomb for fallen stars shining
beyond their death, light
dimming across lite
years to be seen
fately here?

Ping!
Ping!

Hu
cannot
escape
the laughter of devils.

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