a drifter’s drafts adrift

The world does not really exist, except for where the smoke streams in the air and runs like the hair on the head of a corpse of a woman, drowned in a river.

This sky is really not a sky, but a blanket of shade that’s covering eternal flames that are great — so great and fierce they pierce the sky where stars are torched — and every morning, the whole thing catches fire.

After the sun is fully submerged in the vast blue ocean, the moon climbs up, a cold-hearted bitch that doesn’t give a toss — a fuck, really, about the dying child molester, dying alone in his room.
Or the mother, hysterical, in tears, with her hair pulled off her scalp except for where it appears in tufts, caked with blood.
Or the little children whose angelic voices have grown hoarse from crying of thirst and hunger and pain, whose hymns have become dirges and moans, unheard, unattended.

The moon remains in its position, coldly peering down at its domain
Enjoying the show, darling?

**********

Cracking eggs: almost a parable.

An old poor man once complained to God. He said he is losing himself in bits and pieces with every passing day. Indeed, his skin was falling off, dried patches of dead skin. His teeth have fallen off his gums, except for two molars. He could barely afford the rags to cover himself. What he asked God was simpe: food.

The next day, the man cracks an egg and mixes it with a fork in a glass. He drinks it, not noticing for one second how God gives up one life for another.