She drifts into view with candlestick and rosary shouting a crazy haunting verse over and over. She is accompanied by a set of twins who throw loose change out of the windows of the horse drawn carriage into the waiting hands of the crowd who surge forward on a tide of avarice.
They break apart like fragile Easter eggs as the clergy pass dressed in robes of satin. Tamarisk leaves adorn their canopied cowls like brutal butterfly wings.
Silent sweeping sands rise about the hands and heads and hearts of divine providence as the ringmaster gleefully leaps into the center circle writ large by spotlights small that dazzle the eyes of peasants and pilgrims.
They stain the warped factor with untidy metaphors and criminal nouns that group collectives herd into subtle rows of desultory sundowns which spin and crash across the vast nothingness of time and space and hurtle into blessed oblivion.
The undertaker walks in strange days with a hawk above his head and on his arm a peacock that shrieks like the pained cries of tortured children who are filled with the abject fear of lonely evenings
The whores of tomorrow combine lust with calligraphy and re-write the words of love and passion and empower the pornographic priestess with amulets and incense and tattoos that she wears on her thighs for gentlemen of disrepute to lick and fondle while in the darkening sky another star rises to eclipse the fading dawn of yesterday.
All our sad goodbyes are driven deep down and underground where moles hide their blind sight from the god of something who speaks in tongues that no one understands and his stanzas sound like curses and his curses sound like waves and his waves fall onto desert plains that are barren of life and drift away from reason like the scales of dragon tears.
The sweet honeyed lips of the innocents who cannot dream but who nightmare fidget among the thorn brush of paltry reality praying for peace.
A piece of something, a piece of anything.