Easter Carbon

Indeed it was “transformed utterly, utterly transformed,” terrible  no beauty:  rocks, trees,  amber waves of Mother under carbon.    I knew her as skin.  I remember Mother’s skin.

Like I recall that car I’d sweated many hours to possess.  Like I recall my wife;  my  lover’s knees;  the postman’s odd resemblance to my sultry teenage girls.

I remember: heavy-metal  like ice on a stove…and all the everythings before  light and color hemorrhaged from what was, that is, so much… was all just skin…

Same old, same old: idiots with matches playing god,  igniting sudden empty, silent breathless, burnt black Dawn.  Grisly.  The Sun also rises, still, yet, again. A coin in a pall.

Hands wove this woof of ash. Hands of men, who no longer resemble what eyes once knew. As men.  Transformed utterly to turds of coal.

The world is a marshmallow ravished by fire — greasy bloated burned.

White hot? Spit on the ashes. Douse your stumps. Be as the counterfeits, dry with after-earth, born of Mother’s iron womb.

It is what it is. Read other articles by Xero, or visit Xero's website.