Rage

And the red against black is the fulfillment of a

contract carried on the bony back of the keeper of a

stony plaque engraved with names of the faceless and the

maimed by our "sleeper of the age," our "creeper of the

page," the reaper of our stolen rage in all his foul

glory puffed up with the fear and dignity stripped of all

those left in crumbled agony decaying in the stinking

heat, evaporating meat. The folded satin on your "Sunday

best" shimmers like a glaze on this bright and holy day

as you lick the lifeless gaze within this vast and

splendid maze where loneliness is churning with maggots

and worming, and flesh-eating beetles suck a furious rot.