The Last Letter

They thought I was a tire burning.
They thought I was a Marine barracks.

Z is compatible
with the dawn as it bleeds
over the pale and last star:
zoraster, zero, zen and zion.
Those diamonds are in vaults
where the eldest prisoners tortured
are rehabilitated and ready,
privy to the static
age old gnosis and not yet defeated.

Aftermath to etc., aftermath to was,
aftermath shall be - the vague carcass
of temptation a fancy term
for get thee behind me.

Mighty apocrypha tear down these walls.

Where are your villages, your birds?How many brothers walk?Fruit on the branch is willing and/or wicked.A door for entry, one for knocking.Cattle at the butcher, eyes full of angel dust.Carts of melon and spring.Collars creased to the napes of necks.Twisting ropes called spine.Nuclear disk melts the sea, a cold blanket covering entire nations.Wind and too many crops.Disasters happen once, myths twice.The Ages of Ignorance.Waves toss the work of towns into trees.Night vision and green sleepers.A general, at least one.The seventy-two pure ones.The weather is always bomb cloudy now.A simulation at Kufa and a ponderance: Hey mister, did the delightfully dead stone their women?

Looking back at that.

Memories fade, they fade.Survival is for the meek. Z is for lightning.Birds laugh in the morning, dogs all night long.

The thunder said, remember me?