we are called to the Rupture

What are days? Lots of walking.

When not indoors.

Unless the mega-mall in Kaifaqu.
Then walking miles indoors.
It is worthwhile, even in the mall.

The Robot King again.
His train of silver horses,
tank treads.

The road goes so far,
then admits defeat
at the immense pile of rubble,
gateway to the Sky Mountains.

We heard the river burning through the smoke.

Six weeks to get past the Stigma Guard,
but now the only coffee
is contraband.

Go ask the Shung-ging vendors:
Coca Cola and Snickers bars, found by the guards,
mean execution.
As when we were children,
but different, more deliberate joy.

Everywhere is interesting here.
The aluminum foil water fall is beautiful.
And interesting.

We don’t know where to go,
now that the sea is dead.

Surrounded by rubble in every direction,
literally speaking.

We can’t figure out where the oxygen comes from.
There’s simply no chlorophyl to be found.
No snow. No rain. No grass.
A few trees, but yet to see any signs of foliage.

But smokestacks.
Sparks and fire. Smokestack lightning.
And Howlin’ Wolf gone these many years.

A blessing when it’s just coal burning.

Fung came down from Sky Mountains this morning,
crawling the last three miles on his stomach.
Stigma Guard are everywhere.
He showed up at breakfast,
just as we were cutting up the insulation.
His clothes were hanging in tatters.

“I saw them,” he whispered,

as the Spy-drone hovered nearby,

“Rock engravings,
from the dead ones, the long-dead.
Hunters and animals–deer!
And what looked like swimmers,
swimming in water: how?”
His hand trembled as he offered up
three real cashews and a mango rind.

Smoke from the tire fire filled the windows for a moment.
We are at (static).
We do not understand (static, static).

Everyone from the Shenzhen garment plant
is missing.
Pau said he saw a bird.
Nothing kills the mold.



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