ROCHESTER: The View from An Old Room Not a single jet in the sky. Enrico Caruso singing from the Metropolitan Opera. In 1910, the first distant sound of one bee flying toward your ear waiting like a flower, until the entire hive is circling and the noise complicates the process of human thought. How did we cross that barrier of nothing louder and more insistent than thunder and lightning? Why did we finally record and amplify? At first, it was only moving lips and whatever was in the eyes. No one sang, "Mammy!" Then silence cracked like an eggshell drilled by a jackhammer. Is there a piano bar in the old hotel where we can listen to stories about love and loss spun into gold by Frankie and Doris, Bing and Billie, Louie and Peggy, all the"famous singers of the 1950s," a gallery of the immortal dead. Voices from an unscheduled seance, footsteps followed to the attic and down into the basement where you've hidden something behind the furnace. In those secret rooms at Clinton and Main, what else besides shots were fired into the screaming atmosphere behind silent doors? What besides blood was spilled by the crooked deals of New York politicians? How many bouts of lust and shame were considered in the ladies' dining room, quiet tears rolling down into the consomme. We keep the postcards of our love and disappointments. We even hold onto the embarrassments where we could have used a friendly voice that said, "Go no further down "the passage of this comedy." This is where the dust has been gathered and where each eye goes dry, each whisper goes forth with banners and brass bands, eventually silent in the Untold When we speak no more and disappear before another word of love or nonsense penetrates the world waiting for nothing but the next work week of creation where we might rest on the seventh day and listen to the traffic humming everywhere in the near and distant city.

OREGON: The American Star (If Only We Could Live Forever On Our Wedding Day) The American star. The bride in her white veil. The groom’s muscles straining across the shoulders of his penguin costume. Good, clean ignorance. Our country underneath a blue sky. The well-clipped lawns of our universities. All the grass like a fifty yard line. Forward or back, either way toward moments lacking clarity. The savage red dog running behind us, in front, when it should be the beast wearing the accountant’s hat. The one who turns everything into a number, a value. That creature dining on all of us, as sweet as caviar. As compliant as the long and briefly dead. Whoever can be carved into a statue for pigeons, except on the first day we gather ‘round to salute whatever truth or lies conjure the most dramatic purpose of the hero’s existence. That lapse in judgement to die as a lesson to those still trying to figure out how to live. All the better if, like the robe of Christ, the flag is used to shield the modesty of the heroically deceased. A bomb of a car, a missile, the deck of an aircraft carrier. Golden fields stretching away on either side, like the endless opening up of heaven. Ten miles to the gallon and a thousand miles to go, until you reach a coast. One dark, gray ocean. One blue, lined with white sand. Always a place to declare allegiance to the wind that blows the fluff of possibility, of chance taken, massaged, beaten with a hammer, kissed, polished with a handkerchief, made into the venerated object which will put food on the table, and allow you to raise your children with the same hope that the magic known as “opportunity” will guide them down the path to home ownership, to vacations in exotic places, to a lack of dependence on winning the lottery of “Last chance for gas in your lifetime!” We have swallowed too many hidden agendas. These occupy the invisible space inside of us set aside for warm days resting next to streams, on the banks of rivers, on those beaches bringing us waves and water, and in the distance the mystery where sky and earth connect and stars wait for night to tell us of those other worlds looking back at us and seeing someplace waiting for light to part the darkness.

LOS ANGELES: Judgement in the Park You've got a tiny ass kingdom, with some water and a tree. "I don't know where you are." 1911 in L.A.. In New York. In Calcutta. And all that time and space. Sweet paradise huddled up against the Golden State Freeway, super state flee away, solid state circuitry jammed against the limits of sensation, the quantum mechanics of knowing something more than quantification. The blood's speed through the veins. You make me want to breath. "Have a good time." Have a good time. A good time. Good. Time. (Play kazoo.) Is the planet merely arriving at whatever second life is revealed, death is revealed, what may be foreseen? A rowboat, a raft, a piece of flotsam, in an Atlantic storm. In the hurricane of re-entry. Underneath the fire, the many blue miles, the quantities of darkness. Even in the middle of nature contained, that little bit of organized spontaneity in an urban park, where a plant seeks memories with its roots to that place before the million footsteps, before the spoken and unspoken, after the silencing of creatures who licked the red off their lips. (Strike a gong.) We look up into the air conducting heat, waving the arms of its winds, the gusts blowing from its lips. And there will be the horns of Judgement from the billion tiny mouths of insects. Wings climbing back into the sky. Headed as far as possible from this imagined world. And we who could love so much seek to soak ourselves in the color of hunger, as if we would starve if we only knew better how to love. If we only knew better, and we do. So play this song for those who will have the benefits of all our errors. We became silent after being buried together with the brightness fading from behind our eyes. Even then, we remembered how often we enjoyed so much about where we forever were. "I don't know where you are.... "Have a good time." A good time. Good. Time. (Beat the drum.)

NEW MEXICO: Motel, Father, Son, We May Be Toast 13 Air-cooled deluxe cottages, Sound-proof garages, glassed-in tile showers, carpeted floors, panel ray heat. Quiet--Off Highway. Phone: 62 How bright the flash must have been from Trinity, where, as the sign says, “...the world’s first nuclear device “was exploded on July 16, 1945.” Just down the road from the devil's head laughing in the expanding fireball, 123 miles across New Mexico-- The air-cooled cottages and sound-proof garages, glassed-in tile showers, carpeted floors, panel ray heat.... On the motel postcard, in the upper right hand corner, not a mushroom cloud, but the Triple A logo. It was 1956, and the corporate brands were beginning to settle into the flesh of urbanizing herds of cattle, scarring the skin like smallpox, large pox, things in a box-- beds, TVs, telephones, the future rushing in like Santa Claus engaged in aerial bombardment. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” from his sled pulled by Red-Nosed, mutant, Rudolph. From Fat Boy's heat rays vaporizing Nagasaki’s paper-thin walls, it’s stone, concrete and metal, it’s flesh and blood, to the Jolly Fat Man bringing Barbies and hula hoops, Twister, Slip-and-Slide, lawn darts, Ouija boards, Lionel trains, and chemistry sets to the eager children who would grow up to want all the adult versions of those toys-- dildos, pornography, cock rings, Tiffany bracelets, phones on which you can target and launch weapons of mass destruction, with the right app. We have traveled into the hidden corners of destruction, without knowing where we have been. Empty-handed in death. No matter we be pharaohs encased in bejeweled sarcophagi, surrounded by family and servants, boats, chariots, wagons, every imaginable thing we might need to live in eternal retirement. The end strips us, peels us like a grape, chews us and digests our bones, until oblivion farts dust. We have built a spark of sun on our tender earth. The burning of lizards, snakes, birds, insects, and prairie dogs, as we tested bomb after bomb, burning and poisoning, as though we were ignorant, as though we were brave, as though we were intelligent, when we were none of these things and only weeping and shivering in fear of the death we held in our childish hands.

WASHINGTON, D.C.--St. Bernie In a Hollywood ending, there must first be bullets. Romance in your gun. Romance in your trigger finger. Romance in your thumb, with which so much can be done. Dum-dum-dee-dum. The choir opens up with all those pipes gasping, cranking it, “Airborne!" Goodnight, honey. So long, kid. How's the weather at home? Love you, darling. It's raining here, today. Lots of heavy clouds. "Target! Firing! Hit! Flames!" I'll be home. We'll walk by the lake, 
with the moonlight. "Spinning! Climbing!" We'll take the long drive, when the leaves change. "Cloud cover! Where are they?!" The bank is waiting for me to come back. I am promised a job. It won't be much to begin, but it will get better. I'll go to night school. You know how to can fruits and vegetables. Mom has always wanted to teach you her favorite recipes. I think the judge should marry us. That way we don't have to worry about which preacher will be offended. Or maybe they both will be. Small-town life. Husband and wife. I haven’t forgotten Bernie! Love you, Raymond. What do the angels see when they look down? Are they offended by so much bleeding? Does a world, once belonging to Paradise, seem like the right place for bullets in the head? A soft feather taking flight curved in gentle light, lifted into air as sweet as orange blossoms. Where are you? Come back to me. I feel like a cloud floating in an empty sky. Alone, now. Forever? Only you, my Ray of light. Only you walking by the lake. Mother wants to give me her dress, but I want a new one of my own. If we have girls, they can have their own dresses, too. If we have boys, I will let you teach them everything. But you know, I want them to come to my family's church. Granpa and ma are such dyed-in-the-wool church goers. With Dad gone, he'll walk me down the aisle. Come back to me, forever. Oh, and we will have a Saint Bernard. Are angels ever wrong? Do their sweet voices hide coiled tongues? Should we follow them or use them for target practice? We have been practicing on each other for centuries. At first, we had sticks and stones. Would it be any different than beating a bird to death? Blood and feathers. Does god ever come down to teach us other ways? "Thou shalt not kill." Seems clear enough. What is the meaning of self defense? How much more do we need to love?

MAINE: Peak's Wall It is from the mundane that the amazing rises to seek vengeance on boredom. A small child toddling by the sea with mom and big brother sprouts bat wings and must be held down from the sky. The same is true for our everyday civilization sprouting miracles which eventually cycle back to boredom, so that the only acceptable progress is that which amazes us, leads us to believe we have finally solved every age-old question with new hearts installed, 3-D movie wrist phones, mechanical mechanical mechanical mechanical sex organs playing with all the drama of multiple pipes shooting rockets to the moon. Target Universe! Look out! Here come the technologically advanced, intelligence enhanced super men and their magical women in push up bras, winning the ancient battle against gravity. Goodbye, earth. Goodbye. We knew you well, but not well enough to love you. You were our sticking point, but now we are becoming unstuck and waiting to fly away like a small child with bat wings strolling near a beach in 1911 and never knowing what wonders he might live to see. These speeding centuries, sea road along the passage of time, ocean drops in tiniest matter liquid as seconds becoming their infinitely divided fractions. From fire on a hot stick ignited by lightning from the god hand hiding in the sky, to the rockets' blast casting some of our DNA into the air, dong-shaped vehicle pushing aside the atmosphere leading to eternity. It all began with a slice of dirt, someplace with a temperature conducive to heating what was waiting to come to life in that moment perhaps millions of years in a future where wealth would be sought with a hunger to do more than remain with eyes open, breath moving in lungs, brain bathed in the same chemicals hungered for by the same mouth attached to speak the Blessed Name with reverence, swearing with pleasure, muttering, cheating, murdering, without realizing such nearness to the never-ending spark.

DES MOINES: The Knowledge of Corn Freed from time, there is no more haunting, just the ordinary opportunities in an ample bosom and in that gravity-defiant compass pointing toward eternal pleasure and broken-hearted pain, though the strawberry ghosts remain imprinted on your tongue. Wherever you are at the center of the universe, send us a postcard describing the condition of your feet, the temperature outside, and how did you sleep. From these messages we will gather, like a picker passing through rows of corn, all our food for thought, the silos crowded with dust, rats with oxygen tanks strapped to their backs, as masked as soldiers in the trenches waiting for a wisp of gas, a yellow cloud of poison rolling in. We sweep together the pieces of our knowledge, imagining shards of clay as complete pots, the still standing walls of old temples as containing a home for the supernatural, whatever it is about existence that we cannot see. Lifting the same dust with the shuffling of our feet which brought coughing to old throats, drinking drop by drop the same water that touched lips which long ago gave way to naked bones, we dress ourselves in costumes suitable for the place where we have landed. What are the facts? In every ordinary and extraordinary existence, there are the same conditions. Could anything less than human tell us apart? Every heart beats in rhythm with the sun, red fire pulsing in a mostly frozen sky. The earth also borrows light to feed us, melting enough ice, keeping cool enough of what could be geysers surging from broken rocks, scorching every square inch as certainly as fire turning this planet into a funeral of unbroken nothingness. Instead, smell the perfume of flowers. Hear the bees bringing the essence of honey back to their golden hives. See the birds floating and darting through the perfect skies. Our desires quenched no matter how many stones we lay on other stones, until we have built a monument as temporary as a thought about whatever we call Almighty, whatever gives us reason to believe.

IOWA: Nocturne for Whoever We Are That opening of hinges of gray doors backed by spectrum light open to the distance arriving without warning but with total intuition, knowing that ocean's deep sound is music for all creatures in and out of the tides, in and out of everything calling for our love. And we belong to one mystery or more, one reflection of a vision, that mountain on smooth lake and rising above it moon and moon, brightness as certain as a lightbulb turned on by the hand of God, universal grip of the cord connected to the beyond beyond beyond.... Alone at night, far away from everything I believe is my love, all be-longings. Is darkness always blind? By lamplight, in the company of tiny suns, those small fires matching the heat of our hearts, and the beat as ocean-wide and deep. We wander nearer to and further from those hands reaching out to steady us on the edge between day and night. On one side dark sleep, the other so white, that canvas waiting for whoever we are. Should we ever come in again? Or do we stay between blue and blue, red rivers pumping thoughts from brains to toes, from a vision, from a hallucination, a belief unmeasured, unproven. The stars even at such great distances speak to us, explaining everything, but we may put our fingers in our ears and cry, "No! No! No!" and this does not make liars of the stars. They tell us everything we own is as useless as darkness hiding the next uprising of the sun, its fire touching every civilization and its message carved in light on every stone, on every wish, and every desire in which I hold you, asking for undying love. From the forever of now to the always lost we find a path and extract the meaning of what we know and feel, the last renditions of that song which began as one blinding explosion, if anyone had been there to know it. Instead, that blindness by nearly infinite being still makes us blink our eyes until we see the circuits of thoughts rising, circling, falling in multi-dimensionality understood as flat and deep as one foot on the ground of this brief earth, mind both with and beyond every simple thing.

NILES: The Unknown Health of Eternity Thirteen stars with stripes arranged like a blank musical staff waiting for that step into sound. A one-penny Washington cancelled and standing on his head. 2:30 p.m. in Niles, Michigan, one week before Christmas, 103 years ago, less than two years from the guns of August. The beginning of a new world born with the same shovels which dug lines of defense and zigzagging graveyards hoping for budding flowers to rise out of the bodies, seeds planted in repetitious death. No flowers turning with the sun. No lives pointed into the skies with solemn and crackling beacons. Only white teeth chewing the seasons with long rows of stones chiseled with the basics: name, rank, date of life and death. Across the ocean from the graveyards, water rising and falling, submerged land in which the tides of blood would be swept away, made colorless by the depth and long miles covered by the sea. Back in Niles, that borrowed, ancient-river name, beautiful trees planted where there may have been fields of grass on unsettled land, living masts with leaves like tiny sails rustling. Intersections without cars. Two ladies as wrapped and covered as the women of most profound Islam. One might be pushing a pram containing a child the same age as my father born that year, connected to tens of millions of still-beating hearts from the 19th century, and those knowing many who were born in the 18th century, backward in time to an earth uncovered by the advances we consider with so much pride. But how far have we come, we who live with the illusions of things spinning their light in the darkness, crossing miles to show us life and death within the colors of rainbows, shades of darkness and momentary sun-heated blindness in which we catch glimpses of what we call paradise. The flashbulb of every sun firing simultaneously in this universe of shadows. Our opening eyes blazing out and taking in the light from billions of years which could be a blinking of eternal sight. All worries long ago buried, as a star would explode and take centuries to notify us that its fire has cooled into the uncarved shapes of a dance company spinning in the darkness, waiting for the animation of sound suggesting the next steps they might take. Alone, unknown, as empty as the angry hearts of angels. How is Uncle Hemery. Why Don't you write and let me no. I don't no where Mama is left here Monday so you no I am worried to think I dont here from any of you.

QUEENSBORO: Even When We Know, What Do We Know? The tune is always the same. Some of the moon has fallen to earth, and New Yorkers are using it to build stairs up to a temple in the sky, and steps down to where the subway flies or crawls on its stomach like a rat sniffing out a piece of cheese. The human condition long ago floated down the East River, out into the harbor then out to the Atlantic where it was mistaken for a Coney Island hotdog stand released from its moorings, unhinged from that crowded beach of souls searching for a good therapist with some idea of what might be stuffed into those meaty cylinders, though sometimes a dog is just a dog. And who did bring the dog to this party? Who owns the haunted howling in a landscape of chimneys, bricks shaped to contain shelter as much as incineration. Dreams like armor polished to reflect the unleashed melodies of fire, the silent shining of ice. We are always possessed by our surroundings. If someone holds out the brass ring, we're going to grab it even if it is a crown of thorns. Even if the latest gadgets are nailed onto our palms-- text, images, numbers, colors, flowing into us through the needle and the nail. We will gaze at the intersection, waiting for the green and red to direct us, forward, back, high, low, buy, sell. We have always had our eyes locked onto that terminal, even when it was a view of the ancient sky, wind in branches swaying, a painting appearing for 10,000 years in that light shooting arrows toward the spoken walls of a cave. Our brains and bodies forever subterranean and forever seeking some way to leave this earth with one foot staying on the floor. The world will appear and disappear many times before we ourselves take that journey promised to us even before we knew there were eight million stories in the naked city seeking to clothe itself in some slight wisdom not warm enough to keep hands from shivering, palms turned upward to receive the mortal and immortal gift of enough change to buy a hot cup of coffee.

BOSTON: We Shall Be Here and Glad to See You You will be there my child, in your mask, lying on your bed in bandages and fresh air. Down that riverboat on the stars of time, in the ruling blackness, propelled by light from ancient buildings. The watchman with his bits and pieces assembled and shining on his wrist, gold and silver floating as if every second mattered, every moment containing its own warning, each bird note an order to "fly or be lost!" Every shredded wind of the storm and bit of ice falling from comet tail to earth where it will breed silken and sandpaper tongues, each one murmuring truth, lies, misunderstandings, flaming murderers. Your motherly guardians beside your stone wall fathers, bearing flowers, yellow petals, pink roses falling to the earth animated by original fires covering miles in lava as deep as mountains to be rubbed as smooth and slight as the skin on your face smiling to heaven, blessed by the glory of playing on a day when you are lost in the make believe that will become as real as the rest of the world. And from that, armies will march, fortunes will be compiled and lost, love affairs will lead to death and to generations. Things in your youngest dreams will haunt the present, driving you beyond despair into that place where miracles contain one foot following the other, another piece of fruit eaten slice by slice until its memory is as round as the earth we devour and hunger for, until there is no more light in our eyes or breath to part our lips to receive that immortal kiss.

BUFFALO: New Roman Eyes 1917. War. War. War. War. War.... Ad infinitum, so sayeth the Romans, and the Christians who escaped the lions, and the Jews who escaped the Christians, and a few Moslems who twisted their desire for virgins into wringing blood out of yet another misappropriated holy book. If only war were like a comet, passing us by with a near miss once every several centuries. The high priests drinking blood, sipping from every holy sacrifice, raising simple death into something exceptional. When will the dying reject the moment of demise planned for them? The cheering crowds in devil masks, wearing skeletons covered in sweet, false flowers, tossing bouquets like hand grenades, cheers of rotten meat on breaths that should stop along with lying hearts. Families waiting behind for those they have sent to test their courage someplace else than in a world to be overthrown. History transformed by those who have witnessed, too many times, everything that has been stolen. What do we remember on Memorial Day? Do we remember everything which left us without pleasure and short of breath? Leaning into the darkness, embracing what we could not see, because our only choice was that or a loss of faith, a loneliness carried to the ends of the earth, to the last step before we plunge into that nothingness relieved by stars, the glass of what might be which was there at the final moment before birth, just before the first inhaling, there again just before breathing out one last time, staring at the final heartbeat as though the sun were red and still one last time before the beginning of whatever else we need to know.

WYOMING: Post Office Mailing Letters to Forever We have adjusted ourselves, very well, to the role of killer. When we starve, we kill or go hungry. Maybe we kill in self defense. Idiots sometimes kill, under orders, for the sake of a laughing god, a god falling on the floor with legs kicking high into the air, barely able to breath, as some human intones, "I will kill, now, in the name of "(fill in the blank). "I take a life in the name of "greed, probably not even my own, "but for those people who will "turn a profit from my sweat and blood, "from my nightmares." How violently we go into that good night. After a centuries-long costume party. All those lovely uniforms. All those clothes that enhance the already beautiful beauty of girls and women. The insane division of people from other people. "You're not from around here." may be a deadly challenge. Astronaut Rusty Schweikart took a walk in space and wrote that the earth, surrounded by the vast darkness of the universe, contains everything which is and has ever been, "everything that means anything to you," and all of it, "that little blue and white thing," can be covered by your thumb. We have sent signals into the cosmic thing and no thing, that still invisible, theoretical something. Inside our marble hearts, inside our hearts from brass and bullets, from swords and shields, we melt back into the counting hours of the dust, the seconds contained in the particles of ground from which we stare, with and without the eyes to see, that way beyond, that way before, that single moment of now cried by those here, in their passion, and in the even greater glory of that love from which both hope and disaster are derived. I remember you because I was the one you loved, and the one who loved you. I shall never disappear thank you to the immortal moment of being here with even a single flickering of my heart, my hand gentle, my lips with these words touching your lips, my lips with those words touching your lips in silence, while saying everything, so much understood and mystifying.

CHICAGO: Blue Sky Above the Freight Yards Here we are beneath the crushing sky with the fathers and grandfathers of gangsters following in the footsteps of the bright, white men who stole everything which wasn't nailed down, and they came back for that with crowbars. What bird is singing there to the sounds of the tracks, the train cars spraying sparks onto the wood and gravel, creating the music of steel spinning on steel. The livestock coming to the city, not hoping for an education. That stream of blood pouring in from the countryside, the farmers wrestling with weather, pestilence, the prices leaping like locusts from the futures pits, the call and answer that is the do-si-do of wealth, the sudden swooping down of poverty, claws as sharp as the teeth of tigers. Roar that engine, roar that furnace, roar the crowd as a lightning left opens a cut above the eye. Blood streaming from the crown of thorns of having to make a living. Union men and women. Made in America. The bosses busted the dream, unhitched honor from an honest day of labor. Nothing left to make here! Move along. Nothing to make! American power stacked in containers, our potential packed inside metal coffins shipped to near and distant shores like a nation of unfortunate Jonahs regurgitated according to the "will of God," the name for a capitalism as innocent as a small boy with a stick drumming on brass, punching through a window. A marching band plays itself off the stage, led by baton-twirling majorettes sporting five o'clock shadows, passing ruined factories too late padlocked behind ineffective fences, left to an act of nature to clean up, again, the many abandoned works of men. Rising from the concrete and steel, the remnants of our lives chopped into grains of sand, into powder as slick as the gray moon, its tidal forces that history bringing us together and apart, until nothing will remain but a thought rattling around in the emptiness like a note broadcast to the universe, representing everything which ever was on this planet, a museum of bones.

Smoke from a Golden Calf Uhm. Uhm. Every uncertainty. Uhm. Oh. It is this stepping off from birth into uncertainty and certainty. We know the moments of our wealth and undivine poverty, those strokes from the whip of a god that would not be a Golden Calf, a steak on the grill of golden smoke curling higher into the beckoning stars. That infinity of paperwork which brings us from end to end, from open eyes reading between the lines of a birth certificate. Mommy and daddy reel you in on the fish hooks of their passion, their boredom, their means of communication. Severed from the umbilical and cast into chance, into, putting on the best face, opportunity, that disguise for good living. Mud hut, palace, tract house, apartment, pent house, prison, cardboard box, log cabin. That shell game for bodies, for substance of flesh. Stereo system. Rheostat. Garbage disposal. Electricity. Candle light. Kerosene. Moon strong, full, so bright. The different spinning of the planets. On this one we have not yet wiped the war paint from our faces. We still bleed for nothing or everything, balancing ignorance and understanding like jugglers standing in the middle of piles of broken dishes, spent ammunition, the threat of annihilation. One of seven billion, all contained in a blink of humanity, a single eye looking into space and in the totality of which we recognize a fraction.

wait long distance waves of light collapsing space purple plums apple blossoms dreamland eruptions, executions conquest protection protect with steel with bone collapsing into powder tidal motions after life after life has entered obviosity curiosity slick viscosity brain covers flipped up like tin cans of future beans counted on sixteen toes next generation unplanned unmanned not womaned untold humans no old humans no young ones missing middle age end of road and other rage cities' monuments winnowing height insect light we could not end snowfall sunshine appetite uncivilized unfulfilled delicious carnage magnified one by one into nothingness universe staring with black eyes eyes of sparks knowing the end when it sees it in with the new in with the new now and ever more wait

wait long distance waves of light collapsing space purple plums apple blossoms dreamland eruptions, executions conquest protection protect with steel with bone collapsing into powder tidal motions after life after life has entered obviosity curiosity slick viscosity brain covers flipped up like tin cans of future beans counted on sixteen toes next generation unplanned unmanned not womaned untold humans no old humans no young ones missing middle age end of road and other rage cities' monuments winnowing height insect light we could not end snowfall sunshine appetite uncivilized unfulfilled delicious carnage magnified one by one into nothingness universe staring with black eyes eyes of sparks knowing the end when it sees it in with the new in with the new now and ever more wait