Photographs of sand. Photographs of flames.
Burning landscapes. Burning philanthropy.
Money speaks to means. Money speaks to deaf ears.
Curtain call for tongues tied. Curtain call for Young Frankenstein.
I’m getting Wilder by the day. I’m getting Brooks of piss down my leg.
Rabies, I’m a mad dog! Rabbis, I’m looking for salvation.
Searching for a rock. Searching for the oxygen all around.
No signed writ. No paper trails.
Were we ever here? Were we able to hear?
Photographs of red. Photographs of bone.
Carved bleach. Carved shards.
Voices spoke of promised lands. Voices spoke in silver tongues.
Rusting heaps for homes. Rusting heaps for history.
I’m sand now. I’m pissed on by feral dogs.
Rabies, I spread my disease. Rabbis prayed if they could.
Sought and found concrete jungles. Sought and lungs were stolen.
No sky. No woods.
Never were we here. Never would we hear.