The Badly-Made Flyer of Revelations

Joshua Blackman

I fling my pick axe:

Not a single frangible rock

in the entire cave system of my ego.

Just dust

and a dreary, glutinous sense

of having transgressed

certain unexpressed boundaries.

The dark

is seriously dark down here

beneath the shine and starjitter

of early Nov.

The mind sparkling to itself

in flagrant pools, the serrated pulse

of regret, this batmusic.

Supposing the moon, which mechanically spins,

were to announce

padlockclick

its departure –

which of you here

would roll back the rock?

I meant nothing but harm.

berlin lit