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Clinton Maxwell had an awful night.
It was a tommy-gun affair under a
well-lit city inkblot. The red wine
shattered and the city bank was broken.
Shards of glass to cut your feet.

The roar of gunfire could be heard from
the outlying cornfields. The skeleton ring
was written down in Emily's history and red
bauble earrings read her presence.

"Where are the birds?" she asked. "We down
here in the south didn't know of the smoldering
way up north."

Pixelated smoke in your head dreams.
Toenails mad and marching. Hate blown up like
a big yellow balloon filled with helium floating
and soaring across the sky around the world.
Begone rational thought. Begone laughter. Bring
forth that hate and electric fear. The currents are
smoking the pebbles and today Maxwell sits on
his termite concrete stoop and is crying.

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